


Rise and Fall

by WorseOmens



Series: Good Omens AUs [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adam Never Existed, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale loves Crowley, BAMF Crowley, Canon Divergence, Crowley Submits to the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known (Good Omens), Crowley is Lucifer, Crowley is Satan, Crowley is still bad at being a demon, Crowley loves Aziraphale, Demons are dumb, Dragon Crowley, Established Friendship, Established Pining, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Humour, Idiots in Love, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Satan AU, Secret Identity, Sexual References, Snake Crowley, Soft Aziraphale, bastard aziraphale, hellhounds (Good Omens), implied sex, is this a rom com, multiple dramatic rescues, slightly sarcastic narration, soft Crowley, yeah I think so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:13:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27119387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens
Summary: Satan has gone by many names in his life: Lucifer, the Morning Star, the Devil, The Great Dragon, Father of Evil... and most recently, one Anthony J Crowley -- and Aziraphale has no idea. Strangely, though, that might not even be the biggest problem on Crowley's plate right now.(Good Omens Crowley-is-Satan AU)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens AUs [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663576
Comments: 272
Kudos: 519
Collections: Good Omens





	1. Prologue: The Promise

Lucifer fell. It was a story that would be told from generation to generation, one which would spark the first heavenly war and set the Great Plan into motion... Except for a little detail, unknown to the humans, whispered in Lucifer's ear and screamed from the parapets in Heaven and Hell alike. It was a promise — or perhaps a prophecy, not that She specified.

_Ever shall you fall, unless you fall once more... You will never rise again without the love of another._

Lucifer felt the burning truth of Her words as he plunged into the burning pits of sulphur. He screamed, and wailed, and thrashed, shivering as his essence ruptured and a dark, terrible rot set in at his core. In that instant, his power began to fade. He washed ashore from the flaming pool, skin bubbling and red, shaking... He gritted his teeth. All around him, more shadows stirred and plunged into the sulphur. He shuddered on the hard, black rocks, weeping, listening to the screams of the angels who had been foolish enough to follow him. It was all his fault. Their scorched bodies emerged from the mire bloodied and twisted, more animal than angel, bogged down with soot and grime and the lowly things that gathered on the underside of the earth. Lucifer trembled, drawing upon his hemorrhaging magic to close the burns on his skin. Black scales scabbed over the wounds. His chest convulsed with a sob. He had lost his light; it had been taken from him. He grabbed the rocky crag beside him, hauling himself to his feet, deeply disturbed as he felt that terrible, insidious, insistent drain on his power.

This was his punishment, then, was it? Poetic justice at its finest? For defying God's loving plan, he would perish in Armageddon, once his black and loveless heart had drained him of his power, slowly, over the millennia, a constant reminder of his inevitable humiliating defeat. Only love could stop it. Only pure, reciprocal bloody _love._ He bit back a furious scream, anguished and impotent on the filthy underside of all creation. Unless he ever regained his full strength, Heaven would win the final war in the blink of an eye, and the fallen ones would be forgotten. 

In his bitterness, he crawled up onto the surface of the earth. He'd barely recovered from his war wounds, and this corporation was shoddily put-together, at best. He'd asked for something that reflected his true form: a great dragon, black as the void of space and red as a cooling star, with eyes that burned with all the terrible intensity of hellfire. What he'd got was a scaled rope. It was black and red, yes, and the eyes were... yellow, he supposed, but it wasn't exactly the image of satanic terror he'd planned on. He wanted something with more _style._ Still, their budget was low, and their tech didn't even come close to Heaven's. He'd have to just reluctantly cope with being a snake, and keep an eye out for a way to fix Hell's tech issue. In the meantime, he couldn't just sit there beneath ground hoping he'd fall in love with Beelzebub if he stared at them long enough. It would never happen. They didn't stand for what he stood for; he'd only asked questions. He wanted to know why She insisted on testing the humans, even to destruction. Why set them up to fail? What's the point? _Is_ there a point? It was that last question which really landed him in trouble.

The temptation was a cinch. A few words, a succulent fruit, and there we go. He'd equipped the humans with a few more weapons in their arsenal, to cope with this whole _plan_ thing that vexed even the brightest of the angels. He felt a little bad when he heard they were going to be punished but, well, they'd get used to that. It wouldn't be the last time, he imagined. He slithered through the garden, begrudgingly appreciating the warm sun and fragrant plants. The earth wasn't so bad. Well, actually, it was _good_ , as the Genesis story would later specify, though he wasn't to know that. Lucifer was just about to discover something for himself that he thought was good, soon; very good.

He spotted a pinprick of white against the blue sky above the eastern gate, on the wall. "Hm. Let's see what he has to say for himself..." said the demon, slithering up the wall. It had to be an angel. A little bit of free thought might help him. He looked awfully lost up there, all alone.

He hissed something as he arrived on top of the wall. The angel looked down, startled. "Sorry, what was that?"

He transformed from a snake into something a bit more upright. He cleared his throat. "I said, that went down like a lead balloon," he said. 

"Oh. Yes, it did, rather," he said, nodding nervously, watching the two pinprick silhouettes in the desert. He didn't say anything else.

Lucifer frowned. "Bit of an overreaction if you ask me. I mean, first offence and everything," he said, trying to elicit a response. Heavenly rage, indignation, anything... "Don't see what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway."

"Well it must be bad," he reasoned, making vague skittish gestures with his hands. "Otherwise you wouldn't have tempted them into it, ah...?"

It took him a moment to realise he was supposed to introduce himself. "Uh — Crawly," he said, in a moment of panic. Ugh. He immediately didn't like that. He'd have to change it later. He floundered, searching for another topic to distract from that stupid name. "Didn't you have a flaming sword?"

"Er."

"You did!" he said, babbling on with nerves. "It was flaming like anything. What happened to it?"

"Er..."

"Lost it already, have you?" he said, letting a hint of slyness creep into his voice. He muttered something inaudibly, and Crawly blinked, unable to quite comprehend what he'd just heard. "You what?"

"I gave it away!"

And so, Lucifer, Satan himself, Prince of Darkness, Ruler of Hell, also known as the serpent Crawly, fell for the second time in the short span of creation. He didn't quite notice it at first, writing off the flutter in his chest as a quirk of this human body, and the excitement of finding an angel who'd defied God and got away with it. He noticed it again a minute or two later, when it began to settle, and the unusual angel lifted his great white wing to shield the devil from the first rain. Then, Crawly knew. He felt it in his bones. That electric shock, that burning pain, that sweet realisation... It was only small, this love, but it was there. It was a spark, struck over a mound of kindling, begging to be fanned into something more. 

He burst back into Hell that night in a rage. Demons scattered from the doors, some knocked flying, as he stormed up to pace before his throne. Of course, of _course_ this was Her plan! He'd have called her an evil genius, if that wasn't supposed to be his gig. Satan had fallen in love with the one entity which could never be tricked, tempted or teased into loving him back — a bloody _angel._ Crowley’s fate was sealed. His powers would diminish, his child would kickstart the End Times, and he'd perish in the war. Even if he tried not to start the war at all, Heaven would only come looking for him, and then he'd die like a frightened animal caught in a trap. How neat. He really didn't have any choice, did he?

"Sir?" Dagon asked nervously, staying out of arm's reach. "Any, erm... orders for us, sir?"

He went stone still for a moment. "No," he said. He turned away from them, a plan forming behind his yellow eyes. If he was doomed to die in around six thousand years, give or take, fine. He may as well enjoy himself before then, and he wasn't doing that down here. "Everyone stays below ground. I'm going up there again tomorrow."

They grinned. "And then we follow you, sir, for the — "

"N — No!" he said, jabbing a finger at them. Something in the back of his mind quailed at the thought of what they'd do to that remarkable principality he'd met, and he tried to swat the thought away. "I said, you stay here. You understand that? Stay. I'll handle earthly matters myself."

"But isn't that... menial?" 

He scoffed, tugging on his robes. "Oh, please. If you want a job done well, Dagon," he said, raising his chin to smother his anxieties in false bravado. "You do it yourself."

Crawly had gone to earth to enjoy himself, really, before the end. He hadn't expected it to backfire quite so dramatically. It was a big planet, after all, plenty of room to move around and avoid a certain blond angel like the plague. So long as he sent a few reports back to Hell now and then telling them how well he was doing, no one questioned him. Who would dare? He was Satan, the ruler of Hell, most powerful of all the demons (though admittedly, the bar was low). He went about his days with the humans, enjoying the conversation, taking credit for their misdeeds, watching them learn new things... It was fascinating. One of them had recently started to build an enormous boat, and that was the day he spotted a familiar back-of-a-head in the crowd.

He couldn't resist. He tapped on one shoulder, circled around to the other side, and grinned. "Hello Aziraphale!"

Aziraphale jumped, then settled again once he recognised that face. Crawly happily chatted away to him, endeared by the reaction. If he hadn't known any better, he'd say that the angel was a master of temptation. He just seemed so harmless. It wouldn't make a difference, Crawly told himself, to speak to him just once or twice. He'd gone to the trouble of giving him a false name so as not to scare him off, after all, so why waste it? Though, he had to admit, the more he heard Aziraphale say that name — _Crawly_ — the less it felt like a fake name. First by the ark, then later when the floodwaters had cleared, and Crawly heard a familiar voice call that name, and a soft hand landed on his shoulder... 

He batted it away. "Geroff!" he barked, standing abruptly. The mud almost sent him toppling to the ground, but he kept his balance. "I'm a demon. I don't care."

Aziraphale drew back, surprised. His eyes flicked over the waterlogged plains, devoid of life. The ark sat on the horizon, the last bastion of hope for this land. "Hmph," he said, crossing his arms. "I was only being nice."

"Yeah, well. You're an angel. You are nice," he said, spitting out the word like a curse in the hope of making it seem more like an insult. Aziraphale didn't look very offended, though. Bugger. He was indomitable. "What do you care about how I feel about it, anyway? Ineffable, isn't that what you said? So why does it matter?"

"I fear you've rather missed out a few steps in-between there, Crawly," he said, stepping carefully around him. 

He frowned. "What?" he said, as Aziraphale set out back toward the boat, which had run aground and begun to release its population of animals. The angel didn't look back. "Missed out...? What do you mean? Oi! You can't just say that and — ooh, you bastard, get back here!"

Crawly gave chase, and plied him with questions that were sure to irritate him, but it turned out to all be a trap. He was thwarted when he found himself back beside the ark, right around dusk, as the cooking got underway. Aziraphale silenced his questions with a few soft words about the time of day, and sat beside him while Noah's family prepared the meals. He seemed impressed, for some reason, that Crawly refused to take their food. He didn't get why until later. He thought he'd done it out of kindness — selflessness, even! Well... He hadn't been thinking of that at the time, no, but admittedly only because he'd been distracted. The angel always seemed to have that effect.

"Why do humans do that?" Crawly asked, tilting his head on its side to look at Noah, on his sleeping-mat. "Lie down and close their eyes for hours on end? Isn't it boring?"

"It's sleep," the angel replied in an undertone. Darkness had fallen, and the two celestial entities were the only ones left awake. "They dream, so I'm told, and recover their strength."

That was a word he'd heard before, at least, though he'd not understood it properly until now. "What do they dream of?"

"I don't have the imagination to tell you so, I'm afraid," he said with a soft chuckle. In the embers of the fire, he looked even softer than he did by daylight, and Crawly caught himself wondering if this was a dream, before he realised that his imagination could never have created anything so... so... _Aziraphale._

He hummed, tearing his eyes away as he felt that treacherous love take root in his chest even deeper. "I'll have to try it sometime."

Another mistake. Sleeping did indeed lead to dreaming, and dreaming led him inevitably back to Aziraphale. Who else would he dream of? Not demons, certainly, for those would be nightmares. Not war, for the same reasons. No, it was Aziraphale, always him, always soft and skittish and delightfully clever. Always with that name, Crawly, the name which just wasn't him and yet felt so important, when his angel said it. Wait, no. _The_ angel, not his. The.

He — or rather, she, for she'd decided to explore this gender thing humans had, in the hopes of having something of her own to share when they next met — changed her name shortly before the crucifixion. Sharing her new name didn’t happen exactly how she'd envisioned. It was a harrowing moment shared between them, one which would live on in their memories forever. She at least managed to slip in her name before the mood hit a new low, as the last nail was driven in: Crowley. 

Crowley hoped that Aziraphale's voice wouldn't hold the same sway over her, now her name had changed. She was wrong. When they met again, the angel approached her — though it would be more accurate to say him, again, these days. That was new. Aziraphale never been the one to make the first move, and blast it, the name change hadn't worked. He'd even tripped over his words in the most endearing way, exasperating the Roman bartender, and the light-hearted, drunken night which followed was, to put it lightly, the last nail in Crowley's coffin. 

It spiralled out of control from there. The drink, the food, the soft light, the passing of time and the comforting consistency of another immortal in a world full of woefully short-lived creatures... It was a recipe for disaster, and what a beautiful disaster it turned out to be. Before long — with much tempting, cajoling and eventual outright whinging — Crowley convinced Aziraphale to accept the Arrangement, and he would be lying if he said it wasn't simply an excuse to see him again. What did he care if he was a love-struck fool? It hurt like Hell — and he'd know — but he quickly grew addicted as his feelings grew stronger. He knew he wasn't loved in return. He still felt weaker with each passing year, but it didn't matter. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s place to restore him to his full strength. He knew that. As long as he could be Aziraphale's friend, that would be enough. For as long as he never found out who Crowley really was, it would all be okay.

1941 was an innocuous year, if you didn't count the war. Another thing Crowley could take credit for; he didn't have the heart for real evil these days, nor had he ever, really. Humans did enough on their own. The year started, and it would end, and Crowley would grow weaker as he always had... and Aziraphale would get himself into trouble, as he always had.

Simple job. Dance down the aisle, say a few clever things that probably would've sounded a lot cooler if his feet weren't burning, and get Aziraphale to shield them both from a bomb. Easy. Big boom, lot of soot and dust... The rubble shifted and muttered around them as the smoke cleared, and Crowley sagged down in relief as the burning sensation in his feet vanished. He stepped over the rubble, drawing closer to the angel, who stood dumbstruck by his heroics. He looked at Crowley, a lump in his throat. The angel could feel himself teetering on the edge of something, as if the slightest puff of breeze could send him over the precipice.

"I suppose I should thank you," he said, rocking back and forth in his heels. "That was very kind."

"Shut up," Crowley said, rolling his eyes. His fondness was well-concealed behind his sunglasses. He was never much of a guardian angel before he fell, but he'd decided long ago that he'd be Aziraphale's guardian demon, if he needed it. If he couldn't share his love with him in earnest, he'd hide it behind his gestures and gifts. 

"Well, it was," Aziraphale said primly. "No paperwork, for a start, and — oh! Oh, the books! I forgot all the books, oh, they'll all be blown to — "

Crowley wrenched the leather bag from a dead Nazi's hand, sticking helpfully out of the rubble. He handed it to the wailing angel, cutting off his laments. "Little demonic miracle of my own," he said, and swept past before Aziraphale thought too hard about it. "Lift home?"

Aziraphale stared at the books and, steadily, his eyes tracked Crowley through the ruins. Oh. He'd saved them, he'd... he'd remembered how much he loved his books, even after so long spent apart. Just like he'd remembered his favourite wine, and best restaurants, and favoured cuisines, no matter how much time passed. All this, in-between heroic rescues and nonchalant acts of kindness, and all this time Aziraphale had never found it odd, that a demon would act this way. He was a truly remarkable case. He was special, he — he was Crowley, and somehow, that simple statement made Aziraphale shudder with a bone-deep realisation. Thousands of years of repressed emotion and carefully ignored thoughts came crashing through the dam in his mind, flooding him with an emotion he'd never expected to feel first-hand.

Aziraphale had fallen in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I skim over a lot of the action in this first part cause we’ve all watched the show, we’ve seen episode 3, I don’t need to parrot it back to you. I go into more detail in the rest of the story, promise :)
> 
> That said, I couldn’t think of a better story to kickstart the 31st of October! Happy Halloween!


	2. Give and Take

Crowley tossed his car keys aside as he walked into his flat, whistling a tune. It was a skill he'd picked up ages ago from a human, the art of whistling. He quite liked it. Slightly undemonic of him, maybe, but no one had to know. It was the least of the undemonic things he'd been up to since he'd got here. Slacking off, for one. Making no plans for the heavenly war, for two. Loving an angel, for three. What a thrill it had been, saving him from that church earlier. The aftermath had framed his white clothes in ash and fire, and his gratitude warmed Crowley from the inside out. He was very proud of himself (finally! A sin!) that he'd remembered those books. Proper gentlemanly of him, that (ah, well, it couldn't last long...) He collapsed onto his bed without bothering to undress, a smile still on his lips. He felt good. Tired, too. He buried his face in his pillow with a small groan, and drifted off to sleep.

He woke up two days later with a jolt. What was it that woke him up? He couldn't quite tell, but whatever it was, he was parched. He wandered through to his kitchen with a grumble, digging out a glass and resisting the urge to fill it with wine. Once he'd got some water, he felt... fine. Well, no. Better than fine. He felt quite upbeat, come to think of it. What better time to call in at Aziraphale's with a nice breakfast? Rationing was something that happened to other people, in Crowley's world.

He tapped on Aziraphale's door at around nine o'clock, after a leisurely 80 mph drive over. The angel answered with a beaming smile. "Ah, Crowley. Good morning," he said, stepping aside to let him in. "Lovely to see you again, my dear. What's that marvellous smell?" 

"Bacon, potato hash, sausages and beans," he said, brandishing the paper bag as he stepped inside. It was still warm, and the smell was especially delicious in a world where food had become scarce. 

"Oh, my. Wherever did you come across it?" he said, taking the bag and peeking inside as he puttered his way into the back room. 

"Few demonic wiles here and there," he said, by which he meant _I hadn't the heart to steal it while people are hungry, so I miracled it in._ "No one'll miss it."

That was good enough for Aziraphale, morally grey angel that he was. "Tip top. Take a seat, dear, while I pour you some tea," he said, setting out an extra cup on the table. Crowley threw himself onto the sofa, basking in the familiarity of the room. He was glad they'd both settled in one place. It suited Aziraphale especially, to have one place that he could call home and finally lay down some roots. 

"How's the shop?" he asked, picking up the teacup.

"Oh, slow, as ever," he said, very pleased with that fact. "And you'll be glad to know that my books of prophecy are safe and sound, snug as a bug on their shelves."

He allowed himself a smile. "Good. I'm glad," he said. He glanced around, uncertain how to respond to the sheer admiration in Aziraphale's eyes. He'd seen it before, to a lesser extent, whenever he'd come to his rescue in the past. He cleared his throat. "So. Any assignments recently?"

He shook his head. "No, they've been surprisingly quiet," he said with an enquiring glance at the ceiling. "Overwhelmed with the paperwork, processing new arrivals, I imagine. So many good people have died in this silly fffffff — frivolous war."

"You can say fuck, I don't care."

"Now, where's that come from?" he said, tutting. "How vulgar."

He arched a brow. "You were about to say it, just then. _Silly fucking war,_ that's what you were thinking," he said, shuffling forward in his seat and dragging his sunglasses down, slowly amping up the temptation. "Go on. Just say it. You know you want to."

He stubbornly kept his eyes angled at the ceiling. "Preposterous. Absolutely not."

"Liar," he said, pushing his sunglasses back up. “Still, sin’s a sin, I suppose.”

"Well! You're lucky you've brought breakfast along with you, you dastardly thing, you, or I'd have half a mind to throw you out," he said, but there was no bite in his words. He began to dig into the warm food under his nose as Crowley rolled his eyes, chuckling. He knew this dance. _I hate you, but not really,_ and _don't worry, the not-feeling is mutual._

"Bribery works, then. I'll remember that," he said, slouching onto the sofa, perfectly at-ease. That surprising energetic feeling from this morning hadn't faded yet, surprisingly. Weird. Must be the tea. 

Aziraphale tutted and grumbled around a mouthful of bacon. He didn't have the spirit to complain too hard, not today. Crowley had been so considerate, so selfless, and now he'd arrived just to spend time with him. Oh, how had he not realised that he loved him until now? But... there was something underneath that, the bitter fact that if Hell ever discovered that Crowley was fraternising with an angel, they'd destroy him, or worse. He was just one small demon in an enormous infernal machine, after all. They'd write him off as a broken creature and replace him. He wasn't worth as much to them as he was to Aziraphale, so he held back. It would've been easy to reach for his hand, let eye contact linger, or go to sit beside him, and yet so selfish. He couldn't. At least Crowley would never know that he loved him, he thought, sipping his tea. He gently shut his eyes while Crowley was distracted with the dust on his glasses. Aziraphale repeated it to himself, over and over, like a prayer or a curse or something in-between: _he won’t ever know how I feel._ He could spare him that pain, if nothing else.

Day by day, Crowley got used to his new burst of energy. It became a new normal, but the confusion never left his mind. Curiosity was in his nature. Where had it come from? It buzzed through his veins and over his skin like the warmth of sunlight, ever-present and never fading. If anything, it was getting stronger. One night, after a good hour berating his plants, he finally cracked. He’d been avoiding the obvious solution all this time, pretending like he didn’t catch it in the periphery of his thoughts as he paced around. He had to look at his true form. 

He wandered into his room, conjuring an enormous mirror that covered the whole wall. He shrugged off his jacket, and then began the process of shimmying off his corporation. He wasn’t looking forward to this. Over the years, as his essence diminished, his true form had withered and cracked, his splendour crumbling away as surely as the cycle of night and day. Once, he had truly deserved the title of _The Great Dragon._ Last he’d checked, that label had curled at the edges and dropped off a long time ago. His scales had flaked off, his wing membranes dried out, and the vibrant gold of his eyes dulled to muddy brownish colour. He never let anyone see it, least of all himself. It was his greatest shame, to see just how far he'd fallen from grace, reduced to a sad old lizard...

His human body dropped unceremoniously to the floor. He stretched out his true body, uncurling his serpentine neck and shaking his head to clear the slight dizziness hanging over it. He was considerably shrunken these days — another side effect of his poor condition. He stretched like a cat, lashing his tail, tingling all over as the air ghosted over his scales. Right. Enough putting it off... He turned, and looked in the mirror.

He froze. His wings folded neatly against his sides, with no sign of cracks or flaking. The horns twisting up from his head had taken on a glossy black finish, and the crest of orange peacock-feathers between them glowed softly with infernal light, the faux-eye patterns on the tips glaring viciously around the room. Everything seemed brighter and healthier. The scales on his underbelly were once again blushing dark red, and the shine had returned to his lean black body. Lamplight shimmered over him with every movement. "Bugger me," he said, tilting his head, watching the muscle ripple all the way down his long neck. "I haven't looked this good since Rome."

But how had this happened? He was very, very far from his full splendour, make no mistake, but this was a marked improvement over the pathetic excuse for a dragon he had been a few days ago. His teeth were turning back from yellow to white, and his eyes had lost that terrible glassy blue-grey cast which had started to overtake them in recent years. Still... this was impossible, unless... unless...

"Oh no," he murmured, a wave of dread and guilt washing over him like freezing holy water. "Aziraphale, no..."

He was destined recover if, and only if, his love was reciprocated. If the process had begun, then Crowley had made a terrible mistake. He'd overplayed his hand. He knew exactly when it must have happened, when he'd saved those bloody books — of course that would be the last straw! A snarl broke from deep in his chest, stirring the hellfire deep in his belly. The way to Aziraphale's heart was through his bookshop, he ought to have known. Something inside him jumped for joy at the realisation that Aziraphale must feel the same way, and something else curled up into a very tight ball and began rocking back and forth. There were several problems with this scenario. 

Firstly, over time, Crowley would rise to full strength. Suddenly, the Second Heavenly War was back on his mind, and it wasn't going to be a straightforward ‘lose’ scenario anymore. Second, if he brought it up, if he told Aziraphale how he felt... Heaven would have something to say about it. Something involving a very harsh punishment, and the mere notion made his blood boil. If they hurt him, he'd raze Heaven to the ground — but at the same time, he'd really rather not. He'd rather just put all this war business off forever, take naps on Sunday afternoons and drink good coffee. 

Ah yes, and of course, the third and final problem (and arguably this was the real crux of the issue): Aziraphale had no idea that he'd just fallen in love with the Dark Lord Satan. That, in layman's terms, was a big fucking problem.

Aziraphale didn't see Crowley again for weeks. He didn't think much of it, assuming he was busy with some assignment. There was a war on, you know! Demons were probably very busy, times like these, though he knew full well Crowley did very little in the way of work. Still, Aziraphale could forgive the odd evil act here and there, if he needed to keep up appearances. He'd never do anything truly heinous. He smiled, dusting his shelves, reflecting on that fact. How many demons could say that? How many were truly, honestly, worthy of trust? Crowley was a remarkable case. Oh, how Aziraphale cherished him, when he really thought about it. He was a being of love, at his core, and he couldn't resist leaning into these new feelings while he was alone, with music on the gramophone and tea brewing in the kitchen. He wasn't afraid of loving Crowley; he was afraid of acting on it. But the feeling itself, so sweet and so blameless, was utterly irresistible. Every moment he fanned that spark into a greater flame, he unknowingly fed Crowley's recovery, morsel by morsel.

When the demon eventually came back to the shop late one night, it was only to let him know he'd be out of town for a few weeks. "Oh," Aziraphale said, lingering by the door. Crowley stood on his front step, in the circle of light cast by the overhead lamp, and made no move to enter. "Well, wouldn't you like to come inside, and have a nightcap before you go? I was just eyeing up that wine I bought in 1895."

"Hmmnah," he mumbled, staring at his feet. Aziraphale frowned. Was he nervous, for some strange reason...? "M'alright. I just... I had something to..."

He trailed off. "Yes?" the angel said, curious and strangely hopeful, even if he knew he shouldn't be. He had love on his mind, and he couldn't help but want him to feel the same. Maybe Crowley had felt the spark in that ruined church, too, or was it too much to hope for?

Crowley bit his lip. Right, here goes...

"Will you water my plants for me while I'm gone?" he blurted out. He immediately kicked himself, hard. 

Aziraphale blinked, slightly crestfallen. "Oh, of course," he said, and cleared his throat. "I still owe you a favour or two, from the last few centuries. I'm afraid I've rather fallen behind."

He smiled ruefully. "Eh. Who's counting?"

That was Crowley's first and last attempt to tell Aziraphale who he really was. He was a coward. It was torture, living day in day out, growing ever stronger, and never coming clean to the angel he loved. The years ticked by like seconds, and over that time they shared many drinks, meals and soft chuckles by candlelight, or street-light, or indeed no light at all. Every day, their love grew deeper, more complex, more trusting... Crowley's strength was certainly returning to him. It coursed through his veins like fire, warming and electrifying, as his true form edged closer to its former glory. It wasn't quite all the way there yet — not quite as big, nor as loud, nor as soul-chilling — but his progress had been remarkable. The memory of his terrible, wasting illness had faded to obscurity.

Aziraphale suspected nothing. He couldn't. Crowley was utterly convinced that he'd lose him, if he ever found out... As ever, though, he found a different way to prove that he loved him, an indirect way, like he always had. He strode into Hell with easy confidence, checking his watch. Beelzebub, Dagon, Hastur and Ligur were waiting for him in the meeting room. 

The four demons waited for the meeting to begin, a little bemused by the contraption Crowley had set up to project pictures on the wall. They sat down in a line, slumped in the rickety metal chairs that shrieked at the slightest movement against the hard floor. It was the M25 meeting all over again. The demons shared exasperated glances behind their boss's back as he flicked through his notes, messing with the projector. It worked well on the plain, flat walls of Hell, and was overall very visible in the dim surroundings. 

"Right!" Crowley exclaimed, clapping his hands together and spinning to face them with his broadest salesman's smile. This was going to take some work, some explanation, and some charm — and possibly some intimidation. "Bee, Dags, Hastur, Ligur, good to see you. Thanks for coming."

They mumbled their pleasantries, which were always thinly veiled insults in Hell — it was their own version of _polite_ — and fell into sullen silence. Crowley tried not to be perturbed. He was used to the vibrant, mercurial personalities of humans, not... this.

"So, I've brought you here today for my new initiative," he said, clicking the remote. The demons flinched as the slide changed. The title card was equally as startling. "I like to call it _Project Armageddidn't._ Little joke for you there."

No one laughed. Tough crowd. 

He coughed. "Hm. Right, uh... so, as we all know, our job here is to subvert Heaven's activities on earth, and orchestrate the end of the world," he said, clicking the slide again. It was a picture of the earth, which wiggled for a moment, and a clip-art explosion appeared over the top. "But I've been thinking. What if... it wasn't?"

The demons looked at one another. "But it is," Ligur said, the first to voice their confusion.

"Says who?" he said. There was a long silence, and if you listened very closely, you could hear the grinding noise coming from their brains.

"... You?" Hastur said.

"Nope," he said loudly, clicking to the next slide. There was an incomprehensible image on the screen, one that the author will not attempt to describe. "God — 'scuse my french."

"What do you mean, sir?" asked Dagon, perturbed by the image.

"I mean, who wrote the Great Plan? Who decided we have to fight Heaven in a massive cataclysmic war? God did!" he said, gesturing wildly at the screen. "And what did we do last time She told us what to do?"

This time they really were stumped. They fully expected this to be a trick question. Lucifer's mind was sharper than theirs, quicker, enough to outfox even the most sensible demon. No one wanted to give the wrong answer.

Crowley slumped, pinching the bridge of his nose. He clicked to the next slide. "Rebelled. We rebelled," he said. The current slide bore an image of many great revolutions in human history, some of which Crowley had taken credit for. "Come on, guys. Keep up. Work with me here."

"We don't understand, sir," Beelzebub said, deeply baffled. "What are your orders?"

"What I'm trying to say is that we need to rebel again. Hear me out," he said, straightening up again for his grand finale. He flicked to another slide, clicking the remote along with each new part of his plan, revealing a comic sans bulletpoint list. "Step one, I _don't_ conceive the antichrist. Step two, there's no-one to trigger Armageddon, and we send the four horsepeople home again. Step three, we — "

"The glowing square broke," Hastur rumbled.

Crowley turned, crestfallen to see a blank screen staring back at him, with none of his grand plan laid out. He huffed, and tossed the remote across the room where it shattered on the wall. "Forget the slides. We don't need them," he said, trying to hold their attention. "As I was saying. Step three, we tell Heaven to shove their Celestial War up their feathered arseholes and leave us alone. Boom. The apocalypse never happens. Any questions?"

Hastur raised his hand. "Do angels actually have feathered arseholes?" he said in a bored, deadpan tone.

Crowley stared at him, unable to formulate a response for a moment. "No. Next question," he said. He pointed at the duke beside Hastur. "Ligur, yes."

"How do you know?"

"Oh, for — I don't! I don't even know if they _have_ arseholes!" he snapped, irate.

"Then where will they shove the Celestial War?" Hastur wondered aloud.

"It was a figure of speech!" he shouted. Dagon raised their hand. "Dags, I swear to myself, if you ask about angel's arses, I'm going to throw you into the Bottomless Pit."

Ligur chortled under his breath. "Bottomless," he mumbled, and his chuckling quickly spread to Hastur. Crowley chose to ignore that, as well as the fact that Dagon had slowly lowered their hand and abandoned their question.

He covered his eyes with one hand, wondering how he'd got here, when Beelzebub cleared their throat. "Sir. If we refuse to fight the war, we will be massacred instead," they pointed out. "We must fight. It is written. We have no other chance at survival."

He lifted his head. "Ah. Uhm. That's the thing, forgot to mention," he said, sidestepping the issue a couple of times in his head before deciding that it wasn't going to wash, even with four pigheaded demons. He had to tell them the truth, or they'd never accept his plan. "Over the last few years, I've sort of been... you know, in good shape. Hit the gym a few times, went for a run. Did wonders."

Beelzebub tilted their head, scrutinising him. "Physical exercises does nothing for our essence."

"Hmm... metaphor," he said, avoiding their gaze. Four sets of eyes stuck to him, unwilling to let it go. "I'm getting better. There. I said it."

Dagon sat bolt upright. "Sir, that's — that could only happen if — "

"If I'm in love and it's returned, yes, you think I don't know that?" he said venomously, gripping his own arms tightly. "Stuff happened. There's... someone.”

“From Earth?” Ligur asked, bemused by the idea of his master loving a human. Crowley’s lip curled into a vicious sneer.

“None of your concern. If I catch anyone prying, there will be Hell to pay — literally. Am I understood?” he said, glaring at each of them in turn. This was no laughing matter. He wouldn’t tolerate anyone threatening his Loved One, and they knew it... not that they would, of course. Whoever it was, they were the key to Crowley’s recovery.

There was a mumbled chorus of agreement. They all looked suddenly much more nervous, now they knew he'd risen again, or begun to. If they paid close attention, they could just about feel the whispering of his returning power in the air, oozing from the walls and rolling off his corporation in waves. Ligur made a few crude mental calculations, weighing the risks. He could tell Lucifer no, he wanted a war, and get reduced to a puddle of goo on the floor as an example. Alternatively, he could agree with him, and live.

"I support the Armageddunnit Project," he said loudly.

"Armageddidn't," Crowley said through gritted teeth.

"I second that," Hastur said.

"Me too," Dagon added.

"Me as well," Beelzebub said, nodding along. "It is decided. We will not fight the second celestial war."

Crowley could've fainted in relief, but it was not the satanic thing to do. He smirked and swaggered out of the meeting room, tossing a few commands over his shoulder as he went. He walked out of Hell’s gates with a skip in his step. Perfect! Soon, all his demons would know that they would not need to fight and die in a pointless war. He'd saved them. It made him feel all warm inside, though that could be the hellfire. He'd always felt a little protective over the smaller demons, the ones that might not have fallen if he hadn't accidentally dragged them down with him. Oops. Well, he'd look after them, anyway. They lived and worked in his domain, and he did what he could for them. They weren't the only ones dear to his heart, though. Humans also had a special place in his affections. He'd watched them learn and grow right from the beginning, and he'd shared the experience with the angel he loved more than anyone else. They were special to him. He'd be heartbroken to see their world, and all its treasures, destroyed in a war. Aziraphale would, too. That was the whole point of cancelling the whole thing, wasn't it? Protect Aziraphale. Spare his feelings. Make sure he never finds out.


	3. Rain Check

"Anything to report?" Aziraphale asked through the landline. He sounded skittish and hesitant, as if he anticipated bad news. 

Crowley hummed. "Nah. Not much. Finally got the Bentley an MOT. Heard the apocalypse was cancelled, and the weather's meant to be nice this weekend," he said nonchalantly. "Fancy a picnic?"

"... Pardon?"

"I said, d'you fancy a picnic?" he said, holding the phone with his shoulder as he absent-mindedly filed his nails. "I know a spot just out of the city. I can have a nap, you can read. It'll be fun."

"No, no, the middle part," he said, straining to be polite.

"Weather's supposed to be fine."

"Not that bit! You know full well what I mean," he huffed, pouting so hard Crowley could almost hear it over the phone. "What did you say about the apocalypse?"

"S'cancelled," he said reluctantly. "Didn't know how to tell you."

"Cancel — ? How can it be — ? No!" he said, his metaphysical feathers fluffing up indignantly. "Is it April the first? You devil, it is, isn't it?"

Crowley winced; he was a devil, true. "It's not April," he said. "I'm serious, angel. It's not happening. Upper management said it's a no-go."

"Can... Can they _do_ that?" he said, floored by the revelation. "Surely not. It's God's plan, they can't argue with it!"

"Arguing with God is kind of in the job description, angel," he said drolly. He set aside his nail file as his stomach began to churn. "Look, don't worry about it. It'll sort itself out."

"Don't worry! Ha! Oh, that's a fine suggestion, yes, I'll just sit quietly on this major development without mentioning it to my superiors. I'm sure they'll be thrilled," he said haughtily. He grasped at his hair, stress rising like bile up his throat. "I'm going to get the blame for this. I was supposed to manage earthly affairs, make sure everything stays on-track. Oh dear, this isn't good..."

"Woah, woah, hey, angel. Calm down. They can't pin this on you," he said. His words toppled out one after the other, with not much thought behind them other than to soothe his nerves. "This is Hell's doing. We — They, I mean — they decided all this down below. S'nothing to do with you."

There was a long pause. "Come to think of it... How do _you_ know this? Surely it's not the sort of thing that's bandied about willy-nilly."

"W — Well, it's public knowledge, really, down there. Starting to be. Takes a few days for the news to spread, but it's getting around," he stammered. 

"But it's madness, Crowley!" he cried, barrelling on and forgetting the original question. Crowley slumped in relief. "Satan is weak. No one's seen hide nor hair of him for eons, and he can't have fallen in love that way, surely! Cancelling Armageddon is tantamount to suicide for him. He'll be hunted and slaughtered like an animal."

"That's cheerful," said Satan dryly. 

"Well, it's true," he said, not giving an inch. "And what will become of you, amid this mess? Heaven are — somewhat ironically, I might add — not always the most merciful bunch."

He shrugged. "I'll figure something out. Don't worry about me."

"I can't help it, though, can I?" he said softly. Crowley's heart skipped a beat; the feeling was palpable. Aziraphale wasn't as good at hiding his feelings as Crowley had been. It had been a handful of decades, give or take, and already he was saying soppy things like that...

"We'll be alright, angel," he replied, just as tenderly. "I'll make sure of it."

They did go for that picnic, in the end. It was a few months later, not that it mattered to immortal entities, and the worry surrounding the Armageddidn't — which Aziraphale thought was _very_ clever wordplay, thank you very much, once he slipped it into conversation — still hadn't cleared. Aziraphale needed some fresh air, and seeing as it was a Sunday, Heaven wouldn't be bothering him. It was a day of rest, after all. He'd asked if Hell had a similar idea, only to be shot down immediately.

"What? Does Hell respect the Sabbath?" he said, scoffing as he swerved violently out of a junction. "No, angel. We don't."

"Then — aren't you worried they might call for you?" he said, squeezing his eyes shut and gripping the seat tightly. He tried to pretend he was on an old wooden ship in a storm, rather than this explosive metal death-trap with a speed demon at the wheel. "What if they catch us together?"

"They won't," he said. People didn't ring Satan up to run their petty errands. "Look, we're nearly there. Open your eyes."

"No. I'm not falling for that again."

"Angel, I'm not tricking you this time, promise," he said, turning into the forest trail. The leaves dappled the sunlight along the earthen path as the Bentley rolled along, eventually coming to a grassy clearing outlined with wildflowers. The engine cut out, but Aziraphale didn't crack his eye open until he heard the grating of the handbrake. "See?"

Aziraphale relaxed. "Ah, lovely," he said, getting out of the car with the picnic basket in hand.

Crowley followed him out, sauntering over as he laid out the picnic blanket. Tartan, of course — what else? He flopped down onto it while Aziraphale knelt down to unpack the treats from the basket, along with his plethora of cutlery and china which he'd insisted on bringing along, for propriety's sake. Crowley lazily watched him out of one eye, with a smile. Even out in a woodland, far from prying eyes, he was the very picture of poise and self-respect. There wasn't a hair out of place. He wouldn't have minded if there had been, but he knew how much Aziraphale prided himself on his appearance, and he couldn't help but rub off on Crowley a little. He was proud for him. Not a bad angel to fall in love with, all told, even if it was a bit embarrassing for the devil himself.

"Oh, Crowley, look," he said, glancing over his head to the rustling branches. "Swallows!"

He glanced over. "Hm. Yeah, nice," he said, watching the little fork-tail birds flit between the branches. "There's a nightingale there too."

"I do love a nightingale's song, don't you?" he said, happily watching the wildlife, oblivious to how Crowley's eyes had drifted back to his face, entranced by his contented smile. 

"Yeah, definitely," he said vaguely. He didn't know what he'd just been asked, but he'd agree with anything if Aziraphale said it in such a carefree tone. The angel began to help himself to the picnic, occasionally offering Crowley a bite, to no avail. He got far more pleasure from watching him eat. Aziraphale knew so, in the back of his mind, but he daren't entertain the idea for too long, for fear that he might enjoy the thought a little too much. 

Eventually, in-between the clink of his spoon in his pudding bowl and the chirping birds, a light snore reached his ear. He looked down, his expression softening into adoration at the sight of his demon, napping in the sun on a _very_ stylish picnic blanket. It really was the simple things in life which he loved the most. He set aside his bowl, having all but licked it clean, and abandoned his ramrod posture to lean on his hand, his feet tucked under him as he breathed in his surroundings. Ah, what a perfect world... Deep down, he was glad that there would be no apocalypse to end it, really. He was, of course, without doubt, to his _core_ , upset that the Great Plan was deviating... you know, to a reasonably professional degree... insomuch as anyone is upset when their boss's Big Project goes awry. He just wasn't ready to let go. Not of Earth, not of humans, not of Crowley. He loved them all. 

He was tempted to lie down beside Crowley. He wouldn't sleep, just... just lie down and pretend, for a few sweet moments, that it really was that simple. Maybe he'd imagine waking up beside him in a morning, sleepy and safe, like humans always talked about. Maybe he would sleep, if he could share it with Crowley. He looked down at him, a warm glow in his chest as he thought about how honoured he was to see this. No demon would dare fall asleep within smiting distance of a principality and yet, here he was, unafraid. He trusted Aziraphale. He —

A crackling noise startled him. He jumped to his feet, taking up a defensive posture on instinct, before he realised it was only the Bentley's radio. Blasted thing! Crowley had left the window open and it must have come on by accident. With a huff, he made sure it hadn't disturbed Crowley and headed over to the car. He leaned through the window, and his fingertips had barely brushed the dial when a voice came over the speakers.

"... Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Yes?" Aziraphale said without thinking. Whoever it was, they sounded awfully worried. He couldn't just ignore them. 

"Ah! Hi there! Eric, from the demon resources department. Who am I speaking to, please?" replied the voice. Oh. Well, he was a demon, yes, but he sounded so very polite that Aziraphale couldn't just hang up. 

"Hello, Eric. It's... er..." he said, realising he couldn't just say his own name. Well, Crowley wouldn't mind if he handled this, would he? So long as nothing came of it. He cleared his throat and lowered his voice slightly, making it a little huskier. "Crowley."

There was a sound like flipping papers. "... Who? I'm afraid I don't have that name on record, sir."

"Oh. Erm. Crawly, then. That's probably his — my, that's probably _my_ recorded name," he said, his heart skipping a beat. More leafing through paper...

"No, no Crawly either. Are you sure you don't mean Crawleigh, with an E-I-G-H?" he said. His cheery, upbeat tone never wavered. Aziraphale's brow furrowed. 

"What a silly name. Of course not," he said haughtily. Crowley would never entertain such a stupid spelling — for humans, perhaps, but never for himself. "Listen, who is it you're _trying_ to reach?"

"Lucifer," he replied. Aziraphale's heart sank immediately — this was more serious than he thought! This poor demon had the wrong number. "The Dark Lord Satan, as it were. Is he around? Are you his PA?"

"I'm afraid you've got the wrong radio station, old chap," he said sympathetically. "Don't fret. Happens to the best of us."

"Hm? No I haven't. I have it written here: to contact Satan, call frequency 666 kHz, AM radio, and ask the operator to put you through to The Bentley," he said. Aziraphale listened, strangely detached as he listened to the information being reeled off. "Number plate N-I-A-T-R-U-C. Please, it's important, Mister Whoever-You-Are. He asked for confirmation of these forms ASAP. You'll be in a lot of trouble if you don't let me speak to him."

"Was that a threat?" Aziraphale said sourly. Anxiety began to needle at him. A sickening realisation was building at the edges of his mind, ready to break its banks, but not quite yet. 

"No! A fact," he said. "Look, maybe he's nearby. Can you have a look around and see if you can spot him? His corporation is tall, thin, wears mostly black, with spiky red hair and sunglasses. Or yellow snake's eyes, if he's not wearing them. Do you see him anywhere?"

Aziraphale stared at the demon on the tartan blanket. He matched the description in every measure, from the car to the clothes to his eyes. His heart began to crumble. Had... Had it all been a lie? Was he missing something here? Perhaps Crowley might have tricked Eric into thinking he was Satan, but, well... what was more likely: that 'Crowley' would lie to his own kind, or to the stupid, gullible angel who was soft enough to give away his flaming sword? His throat tightened. He'd made easy prey of himself, hadn't he? He was shocked that Crowley had even let him live back in Eden, on that wall like a sitting duck, but maybe that was exactly why. _Look at this,_ he must have thought. _I’ll have a good game out of this one._ Something deep inside Aziraphale's chest tore in half; he wanted to deny it, but... but... 

"He's not available at the moment," he said, his voice distant, and he switched off the radio. 

Crowley mumbled, face-down on a scratchy picnic blanket. He shivered. Why was it so bloody cold? He cracked open one eye. A dark forest stared back, deadly silent, and the leaves dared not move under the devil's gaze. He lurched into a sitting position. 

"Angel?" he shouted, looking frantically back and forth. He scrambled to his feet, twisting around, jogging around the edge of the shadowy clearing in hopes that he'd see him nearby, helping a baby fox or some other such gratuitously kind act. "Angel, where are you?"

His heart fluttered nervously. Had something happened while he was out? The picnic basket was still there, swarming with insects, and his car sat on the trail like a sleeping beast. Grinding his teeth, he took out his phone — which knew better than to be out of battery — and dialled his number. It rang, and rang, and rang... No answer. He tried again, to the same results, before giving in with a frustrated shout at the sky.

His own demons wouldn't have attacked Aziraphale, would they? Not without waking him! Was it other angels, then, who'd kidnapped him when he'd been caught having lunch with a demon? But then, why not kill him while he slept? It made no sense. He wrenched open the Bentley's door, and the engine roared into life. He had to stay calm. He had to. If Aziraphale wasn't in his bookshop, then he'd panic, and all of Hell would empty in search of him until he was home safe. 

His tyres screeched to a halt in Soho. He was half relieved and half annoyed to look out his window and see a light on in Aziraphale's shop, despite the late hour. He must be in. He grumbled, getting out of the car and stomping over. He banged on the door so hard his fist ached.

"Oi! Aziraphale!" he shouted, standing in the halo of warm light. "What the bloody hell d'you think you're playing at? Open the door!"

He fell silent, breathing heavily as he leaned on the old wood. No one answered. "I know you're in there, you idiot, I can see the light's on," he called. Something shuffled inside, and a door squeaked. He expected to hear footsteps approach the door, but none did. 

"We're closed!" Aziraphale called shrilly from somewhere inside.

"Cl — ? Closed? I'll give you closed! You left me high and dry in the woods — no goodbye, no note, you weren't even answering your phone!" he ranted. He slammed his fist into the door again, frustrated. "What was I supposed to think?"

"Nothing at all," he said, his voice fading. Hurried footsteps retreated away from the front door, toward the back. "Cheerio, bye-bye, goodnight!"

Crowley gawked at the door, as if he could see through it to the brown waistcoat fleeing deeper into the rabbit warren of shelves. What...? He was used to being pushed away by now, kept at arm's length, but he usually knew why. He'd never been like this before. Never in six thousand years had he left Crowley out in the cold, literally, so suddenly and so arbitrarily. There had to be something behind it, surely. He grasped the door handle, rattling it. It held firm, locked by both human and angelic means, but Aziraphale should've known better than to think that would keep him out. His imagination was far too active for that. He stepped down off the front step, shoving his hands in his pockets and circling around the building. His forked tongue flicked out. There was no scent of old books on the air, no warm drink or wine, no midnight snacks — i.e. Aziraphale hadn't been stupid enough to leave a window open. 

Crowley looked up, eyeing the sheer brick face of the shop. He could climb that. He flexed his fingers, rubbing his hands together before placing them flat on the wall. He felt them adhere solidly, and took a deep breath before lifting both feet from the pavement and sticking them against the wall. The world tilted, and Crowley found himself crouched on the vertical surface, held in place with nothing but his own power. He grinned. A giddy feeling rushed over him; it was the first time he'd really flexed his magic in a few years, and with his newly recovered strength, it was invigorating. He stood up, and walked up the wall at a leisurely pace. 

He stepped onto the roof, treading carefully. Loose tiles were a slippery business, and it would be hard to explain back downstairs exactly why he'd fallen from such a great height, if he got discorporated. Not that he was answerable to them, really. He grasped the lip of the chimney, craning his neck to peer down into the murk. Aziraphale hadn't used this thing since the Victorian era, preferring warm blankets and candles to keep him cosy in his shop. He clambered onto the chimneystack, rolling his shoulders, and shrunk his corporation down a few sizes. Enough that he could step off the edge and walk down the inside of the chimney, one hand covering his nose to block out the old ash. The walk was long and dark, peppered with grime and soot from a bygone age that slipped underfoot and stuck to his heels. Ugh. The things he did for his angel...

Warm, golden light finally came into view. He gripped the lip of the fireplace, swinging himself into the room and landing with a light _thump_ on the floorboards. He shook the dirt from his hair, miracling it away as an afterthought, and re-grew back to his regular size. He straightened out his shirt. The armchair before the fireplace was empty, cold, and the side-table was bare. He skirted around it, creeping through the shelves, listening carefully. The cuckoo clock ticked. Wind murmured outside. Somewhere in the back room, pages rustled, and a fussy angel murmured self-deprecating comments. Crowley tracked the noise, his footfalls silent. 

Aziraphale sat at his desk, trembling. A glass of whisky sat by his elbow, untouched. He had his head in his hands, sat over a Bible, staring at the thin pages without reading. He couldn't remember why he'd taken it out. It just seemed like the appropriate thing to do, when one had mistakenly fallen in love with Satan. The book might take it all away. It could make things alright again. Ha. Crowley always had said he was naive about Heaven... But he would say that, wouldn't he? He rubbed his eyes, making small plaintive noises that never evolved into words. The warmth and comfort of his shop did nothing to console him. He sighed. He lifted his head, looking out the window into the blue-black night. Two yellow spots hung in the window like distant street-lamps, only... only there were no street-lamps outside this window... 

Crowley's reflection swam into clarity. He jumped to his feet, whirling around, stumbling back against his desk. The whisky sloshed around the glass. "Stay back! Don't come any closer!" he cried, pinned against the table.

The demon held up his hands, staying a respectful distance away. "Alright, alright," he said, taken aback by his genuine fear. "I'm staying put. What's got you so spooked?"

"Get out. Out of my house," he spat, gripping the desk behind him until it hurt. He could try to fight Crowley, yes, but his heart would betray him. He couldn't bear to win. "I know what you are."

Crowley's expression dropped. He attempted a cheeky smile, glancing over his shoulder as if hoping someone else would be there. "Who, me? No bonus points for that, angel," he said. He swallowed hard. Humour was a thin veneer to cover his dread. "You've known me for six thousand years."

"No, Crowley. I've known a lie," he said. His voice turned thin and raspy, strained through unfallen tears. "Or should I call you by your proper name? _Lucifer?_ "

Crowley's heart shattered on the floor. He opened his mouth, choking on his words, searching for the right answer... Aziraphale's face crumpled, turning away in sickened turmoil. That reaction was all the confirmation he needed. It was true. His last hope, that it was all a big misunderstanding, slipped through his fingers as easily as sand through an hourglass. 

"Please... Please don't deny it," he whispered. A tear rolled down his cheek. "It already hurts enough."

"Aziraphale," he said, taking a step forward. The angel flinched. Crowley stopped dead. "I'd never hurt you. You know that."

"How?" he said, voice spiked with anger. He brought his shaking hands up to wrap around himself. "I didn't even know your name until today."

"And that was it. That's _it_ , angel. Everything else was true, I swear," he said, hoarse with desperation. Tears shimmered over his eyes. He wanted to drop to his knees and beg, beg to be forgiven — but that was too much for either of them. "Satan, Lucifer, The Devil, Crowley... I've had so many names. One more didn't seem so bad at the time."

Aziraphale stared at the floor, one hand over his mouth, mumbling almost incoherently. "I've been a fool."

"M'not as bad as everyone makes out, y'know," he mumbled, hanging his head. "I just wanted to live a little, before... you know. The End."

The thought twisted Aziraphale's heart. Crowley — Lucifer — whoever he was, was weak... or so he assumed. He almost certainly didn't return his feelings. In all honesty, the idea was too terrible to contemplate, that he'd helped the devil rise again. If the war began while Crowley was weak, he'd die. If the war began while he was strong, Hell would win. Both were, frankly, unacceptable. He had to ask which he was facing... He had to.

"Why?" he said, unable to reach for any more words until he composed himself. "Why did you stop it? The Apocalypse?"

He didn't answer. The long silence made them all the more tense. "Earth. You know," he said noncommittally. "Seemed a shame."

"Is that all?" he said, his heart rate erratic and out of rhythm. It took all he had not to shout and scream and curse the very idea of love, for all it at given him, and all the more that it had taken away. "Cr — Lucifer, answer me, please."

"Don't call me that," he said, a little too sharply. He squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm Crowley to you. Nothing's changed."

"Everything's changed," he said harshly. Crowley flinched. No, no, it couldn't end like this, anything but this... He covered his eyes, turning away, trying to fight back the burning confession rising up his throat. He had to know. He had to tell him. "Answer me, fiend!"

"I love you!" he shouted. The cuckoo clock fell silent. Aziraphale turned deathly pale, and Crowley's heartbeat pounded in his ears. "... and I know you love me, too."

Aziraphale shook his head, mortified. "No. No. I don't."

"You do," he said, coming closer. Aziraphale jolted, fleeing out of arm's reach. "I've known for decades, angel. 1941, wasn't it?"

"Ridiculous. I would never!" he shrieked, facing away from him, leaning heavily on a bookshelf. He clenched his jaw. "You're lying!"

"You can't deny it for much longer, angel," he said, staring at his back, tense. He flexed his hands. "I'm getting stronger. After six thousand years, I _finally_ have a choice, don't you see? We can change the plan!"

"We? There is no _we!"_ he said, turning to face him again with tears in his eyes. "I am an angel, and you are the devil. We cannot change the Great Plan, it's — we — no! It must be done!"

"Bollocks to it. I don't have to do anything," he said, curling his lip. "I run Hell. They do as they're told, and I said _no war."_

"Don't be so arrogant," he snapped. His voice turned hoarse with stress. "You must begin Armageddon."

His face soured. "That's not my job. Remember?" he said bitterly. "That's for my spawn."

"Well, then that's even easier, isn't it?" he said. He gritted his teeth. The idea of Crowley with someone else, creating the antichrist... Envy stirred in his chest, mottled with anger. _It should be me,_ whispered the most depraved and selfish corner of his mind. _That child is rightfully mine._ He crushed the idea before it took root. "I can't be responsible for derailing the very fate of the universe."

Crowley sighed. He stared at him, aching with pity. "Angel... Heaven will lose," he said. He wasn't gloating, just stating a cold, sobering fact. 

"Then perhaps one day I’ll be your prisoner of war," he whispered, a lump in his throat. “Then you can do whatever you like to me, can’t you?”

Crowley recoiled. “You make it sound like I’m — ” he said, then stopped himself. Dare he say it? He released a deep breath, staring at the floor. “You make it sound like I’m evil.”

Aziraphale shut his eyes, wrestling with the sob rising up his throat. “You are,” he said, barely audibly. He never had been a good liar. 

There was a long, tense silence, pulled taut like an elastic band, poised to snap. Crowley’s footfalls drew near. Aziraphale tensed up, not daring to open his eyes; he felt his shoulder brush past him, stealing one last fleeting touch, and vanish. The slow, defeated gait faded into the next room. Aziraphale heard the chime of the shop’s bell, and the squeak of the front door. Crowley closed it softly behind him.


	4. The Great Dragon

Crowley sat in his study, staring at the wall. His eyes were vacant and unseeing. It was over. He'd been right all along; as soon as Aziraphale knew the truth, he lost him. He took a deep breath, and blew out through his nose. Sulphurous smoke billowed out with his breath. Fire cracked in his chest. He was stronger than he'd been for centuries, but still so empty inside. He wasn't growing any stronger now. Everything had screeched to halt the moment he'd been rejected. He sat there waiting for the process to reverse, to feel himself deteriorating again, but instead, he felt nothing. He was little more than a puppet in the plan, like he'd always expected... Why had he been so stupid? 

If the war was really what Aziraphale wanted, maybe he should go through with it. He'd need to find a receptive human, and... no. No, that was all wrong. It wasn't a choice the angel could make for him. He'd rather fight the war alone than with a child he couldn't love, who by rights had no choice in the matter. Bringing a life into the world just to end it, I mean, it was cruel even for Satan. He couldn't do it. Anyway... he didn't want anyone but Aziraphale. If he couldn't have that, he'd just have to enjoy his own company. 

Who said he had to listen to Aziraphale, anyway? He wasn't the only reason he couldn't be arsed fighting a war. He was strong enough to defend himself now, at least, if not to survive forever when Heaven inevitably threw a fit. Using what he had, he could just keep on living for another few millennia perhaps, have a good time, and then see how he felt. He could run at his own pace. He really ought to try living without Aziraphale before throwing himself off the metaphorical cliff. He'd get bored eventually, of course, when the heartbreak cracked him down the middle and left him finally broken, but until then he could bury his head in the sand and pretend like he didn't love anyone. Easy enough, right? ...Right? 

Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months. One year passed since Crowley's true nature came to light and still, Aziraphale hadn't told Heaven. He knew he should. He had a duty to warn his allies of their impending doom, when they faced the Great Dragon on the battlefield, greater and more terrible than they'd ever anticipated. He wasn't to know that Crowley wasn't actually at full strength, of course. All Aziraphale knew was that his heart had gone cold. 

He couldn't remember the last time a single year had dragged by so slowly. Day in, day out, he looked out the window wondering if he'd see a Bentley parked outside. He never did. He'd sent Crowley away, and that was that, it seemed. Maybe he should be glad. Satan's lover was never destined to be an angel, but a human — the antichrist was destined to be half-human, as the plan dictated. It was how it must be. Nevermind the way it made him stomp around the shop and snap at customers anytime he thought about it. Barely a decade until the apocalypse now. Less than a year until the antichrist would be conceived. It felt like a deadline, but he refused to acknowledge it. He feared those last eleven years would slip away from him too fast. Would he ever meet Crowley's child? Would he see his sharp features hidden in their young face? Would they know what he'd once meant to their father? 

... Would they forgive him, for breaking his heart?

He found himself copying Crowley's old habits, subconsciously at first. He tapped his nails on the table like he had done, when the back room felt too silent without it. He whistled tunes he remembered hearing from his lips. He ate alone at the Ritz. He could feel the pity radiating from the wait staff in droves, seeing him on his own after so many years dining with Crowley. He heard them whispering about it. Some thought Crowley had passed away. Others thought they'd "broken up". He wilfully ignored it. 

The voices echoed in his head all the way back home. It was dark. Streetlamps lit his path, but did nothing to reassure him. He never thought he'd miss the way they flickered by through the car windows as Crowley drove erratically back to Soho. 

He drank heavily in the backroom of his shop. He didn't care what he reached for, so long as it burned. He quickly lost his grip on sobriety, disorientated and wrung-out, slumped back on his sofa. Maybe he should stop going to the Ritz. It only upset him. Denial was a skill of his, true, but he ought not to try living like nothing had changed. He groaned. He was drunk, and heartbroken, and he suddenly felt very human. He breathed deeply, shutting his eyes. He'd heard sleep could settle the mind, sometimes. Maybe... Maybe it was worth a try...

Demons crept around the halls of Hell with bated breath, fearful of hearing the _clack_ of snakeskin boots on stone. Satan had returned to Hell with a vengeance. He was angrier than anyone remembered, always picking faults, doling out punishments and raising his voice. The plan to live on earth wasn't working out. He needed a holiday, and there was nowhere for him to go, apart from space, but he didn't fancy that. Too cold out there at this time of year. He'd kick back down here for a few years and then he'd brave the surface again, perhaps Scotland this time... He couldn't hang around London. It would be too easy to run into Aziraphale by mistake. 

He slammed a report onto Asmodeus's desk, startling the demon out of his seat. "Sir!" he cried, stood to attention.

"What is this?" Crowley hissed.

He looked down. "Um... my annual report, sir..."

"I know what a bloody report is. Do I look like an idiot to you?" he snapped. Asmodeus flinched. "I meant _these_."

He tapped a long, sharp talon on the dark spots littering the paper. He'd taken on far more demonic attributes, now there were no humans around. "Those — Those are ink blots, Mister Lucifer Sir."

Crowley slammed his hands on the desk, towering over the trembling demon. "You know what I told you about this report, _Asmodeus._ I told you to make it perfect," he said, baring his teeth. "And you know how I feel about shoddy work. I will not stand for it!"

"N — No, of course, sir. I understand."

"Do you?" he said, leaning back. "Then you'll rewrite the report — better, in half the time. And don't use the letter A this time."

"B — But — Sir, my name — "

"Figure it out!" he barked, turning his back and prowling out of the office. He snapped his fingers over his shoulder, and Asmodeus's desk burst into flames, spitting fire in every direction. He slammed the door behind him, stopping short when he saw Beelzebub waiting in the hall for him. He narrowed his eyes. "What're you looking at?"

"That was unnecessarily cruel," they said.

He grunted. "Thanks," he said, turning to make for his throne room. It wasn't like he had any plants down here to yell at, so demonic bureaucrats would have to do. 

Beelzebub followed along. "Not that I'm complaining, but is there any special reason, sir?" they said. They were the only demon who could get away with asking. They'd been his most shrewd adviser for eons, and had ruled on his behalf while he was on earth. "You've been especially vicious, petty and short-tempered ever since you returned to us."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Beelzebub," he said, pushing his way into the throne room. "I'm fine."

"Is it your Loved One?" they asked, having long suspected that he'd been spurned. He froze. They tensed, staring at his rigid back, and began to edge backwards. They'd made a mistake. They shouldn't have asked, having just watched what he'd done to Asmodeus just for a few ink spots. 

Crowley didn't turn to face them. He stared at the grey walls of the barren room, and could barely raise his voice above a hoarse whisper. "Don't you talk about him," he said. He twisted to look over his shoulder, his eyes burning red at the edges. "Don't you _ever_ talk about him."

Aziraphale threw himself to the ground, trembling. War raged around him. Angels screeched and blades clashed, slicing through demonic flesh as the legions leapt from the earth. When one fell, another rose to take its place. Angels poured from the sky, splitting the cloud-cover to reveal the scorched, angry red of the sky. There had been humans here a few hours ago. He couldn't see them anymore, trampled into the churning mud beneath the blood and marching feet of the armies. He wrenched himself up, trying not to breathe the noxious fumes. He ducked under a scimitar blade, and dodged an axe. An arrow bit his arm. He cried out in terror and pain, but the hate in the air drowned out anything else. Tears ran down his face. They were hotter than the blood rushing in his veins. 

A deafening roar shattered the atmosphere. The sky itself shook, and thousands of eyes turned toward the crumbling firmament. A shadow loomed in the smoke. A flash of gold broke through the grey. Aziraphale let out a terrified sob, recognising the great yellow eye peering through the chaos. The Great Dragon was here. 

The shape broke free. Vast draconic wings turned the battlefield blacker than night, sweeping across the ruined land as another thunderous roar ripped the air. Crowley opened his mouth, flying low, and released a jet of fire onto the soldiers below. Demons exulted in the hellfire as angels perished, turned to shimmering ash which cut their screams short. Hundreds died in a single pass. With a flap of his wings, he took to the sky, circling around to paint another streak of devastation across the field. He was the Doomsday Option. He was their greatest weapon, too terrible to withstand and too fast to attack.

Aziraphale spread his wings, flapping them desperately, kicking off the demon who grasped at his ankle. Crowley's enormous shape was rapidly approaching, loosening his jaw for another pass of his fiery breath. The Principality hovered in the air, above the field, feeling the rush of air as the dragon approached.

_"Crowley!"_

His voice seemed to silence the battle. His ears rang as the dragon spread his wings, slowing his flight. He hovered in place, twisting this way and that, unable to spot the tiny white freckle among the fire and ash kicked up from below. Dark clouds swirled above, blotting the red from the sky, grumbling with thunder. "Angel?" cried the dragon, desperate and panicked, searching the choked air as if there was no war to be fought. The clouds flickered, brewing a storm. "Angel, where are you? I heard you!"

"Crowley!" he called again, fighting the winds to fly closer, higher in his field of view. If he'd had his flaming sword, perhaps he'd have had a better chance. He waved his hands, flying ever closer. He had to reach him. They could stop this. Together. "Crowley, my dear! Look!"

Finally, _finally_ , those huge amber eyes focused on him. Even without his human face, Aziraphale knew the way his eyes wrinkled with a smile he couldn't show, and he knew he'd seen him. Time slowed down. The sky crackled with thunder. 

"Ang — !" 

Sparks exploded on his scales. He screamed, a pure reptilian noise, devoid of any sense and meaning beyond his agony. A lightning-bolt lanced down from the storm clouds, striking his back, burning through his hide and severing his spine. His great black form hung in the air for a moment as his cry tapered out and, for the final time, Crowley fell. His limp body plummeted groundward, the last graceful sight of a bloody celestial war, clearing the smoke and debris with the force of his descent. Aziraphale screamed, folding his wings to chase him downward, as if he could still be saved. He'd saved him once, hadn't he? Hadn't he? 

The earth shook as the monstrous form hit the ground, the noise reverberating across what was left of Megiddo. Aziraphale spread his wings, halting his fall. Crowley did not move. He lay under the burning sky, fallen, while angel's tears fell like the first rain. 

The Great Dragon was dead. 

Aziraphale jolted awake in a cold sweat. His nightmare flashed behind his eyes, vivid and harrowing and refusing to fade. The war, the fire, the dragon, the lightning bolt that killed him... He didn't realise he was crying until he felt the tears fall from his jaw. Sniffling, he wiped his eyes, sobering himself up as he lurched for the phone. He had to call Crowley. There was something far too real, too imminent, about the dream for him to feel settled again. He couldn't endure it. His heart hammered in his chest, and his hand shook as he fumbled to punch in Crowley's landline number. He always answered. Always. Even after a year, surely, if he could just hear his distress, he'd find him. It would be like old times. He had to hope that love wasn't so easily broken. 

"Hi, this Anthony J Crowley. I'm not at the phone right now. You know what to do, so do it with style," drawled the familiar voice, making the angel's heart sing for a brief moment before he realised it was an answerphone message. There was a beep, and a long silence.

"... Crowley?" he said in a weak, trembling voice. The quietness stretched on. "I... I realise I haven't called in an awful long time, but — but — I — need — I need... oh, if you're there, please don't ignore me. I beg of you. P — Please, call me back, if you get this. It's Aziraphale, by the way. Um. In case you... forgot..."

He slammed the phone back onto the receiver. Would Crowley have forgotten his voice...? Surely not. Well, now he'd just made a fool of himself. Heavens, why hadn't he just gone over in person? It would be far more polite than an inarticulate phone call. He stepped away, wringing his hands together with the weight of anxiety in his chest. He couldn't face sleeping again in the hopes it would be the phone which woke him next time. He could go to his flat, wait there for him, perhaps... He'd never hugged Crowley, but he wanted to, now more than ever, just to feel safe again, to be sure that horrid dream was nothing but that: a dream.

It was deep in the small hours of the morning when he left the shop. He hailed a taxi, with the help of a small unconscious miracle, and set off toward Mayfair. He twiddled his thumbs, waiting for the shape of Crowley's block of flats to appear above him. It was a painful wait. 

He didn't recall climbing the stairwell and arriving at Crowley's door. He knocked. No answer. He tried the handle, and felt it unlock itself under his palm, granting him entry. 

There were no lights on in the flat. He crept inside, glancing around. "Hello?" he called. Everything was grey and minimal, like he remembered. He peered around a corner. The shape of a chair and a desk sat underneath a large white sheet. Nothing else. "Crowley?"

He poked his head into every room. The plant room was quiet, notably because there were no plants. He was puzzled; Crowley had always taken great pride in them. What had he done with them...? He wandered down the hall, flanked on both sides by works of art hidden beneath linen sheets to keep the dust from settling. He rapped gently on the bedroom door, the only place he hadn't checked, and eased his way inside. The bed was empty. He stood in the doorway, casting a long shadow into the room, his shoulders slumped in defeat. There weren't even any bedsheets; just a bare mattress. No one was here. If he didn't know any better, he'd say no one had been here for a long time. Crowley had moved out. His things were here, old relics of time gone by — _souvenirs,_ he'd called them... but it seemed he no longer wanted to remember. This place was just storage.

His eyes landed on a familiar shape beneath a white cloth, standing at the end of the hall. He swallowed hard. He gingerly approached, reaching out to grip the fabric and slide it off, until it pooled by his feet with a light thump. He pressed a hand over his mouth. It was a lectern, from a particular church which had crumbled in around 1941, on the very day Aziraphale had fallen in love. It, too, had been left behind. Aziraphale hung his head, tears building in his eyes. 

"Good lord, what have I done...?"

Crowley had a room in Hell. It sat at the top of the tallest tower, thrusting up from the jagged, ash-smeared sprawl of his castle. His room was an extravagant, high-roofed chamber of black, red and gold, dominated by a bed so large it surpassed king-sized and went off the deep end into despotic emperor-sized. It took a row of ten pillows just to span the length of the headboard, which was obsidian black with a gold line-art sunrise centred in his favourite spot, smack in the middle. He sat in his armchair by the window, staring dispassionately onto the best view in Hell — that is, the road in, frozen solid with an eerie fog hanging over it. It passed by the dark tower, rough around the edges and growing steadily wider. Demons had little else to do but roadwork, sometimes.

There was a knock at the door. He glanced over, confused. People rarely climbed the tower to visit him, unless something important had happened. He huffed. "What?" he shouted.

One of the enormous mahogany doors creaked open a little. "Sir?" Dagon said meekly.

"What is it?" he said jadedly.

"Bottle of hellshine for you, sir," they said, producing a large wide-neck bottle of wickedly strong infernal alcohol. There was a long pause. Beelzebub had no doubt told them about what was really bothering him and, well, he and Dagon went way back. They weren't the sharpest knife in the block, but they knew when to keep their mouth shut. Where Satan's secrets were concerned, that was a useful skill. A silent offer was being made. Acquaintanceships were cold and distant things, among demons, and offers to help weren't made in so many words — and never without something to gain. In short, they wanted him to stop moping. He grunted, and beckoned them in. Fair enough. He wanted that, too. 

They poured two glasses. Crowley sniffed it, his forked tongue flicking out to test if they'd poisoned it. Couldn't be too careful. It was fine, though, and soon they were three glasses deep and very, very drunk. Hellshine was no laughing matter.

"B... Beel — Baalzzzz — Bullybuzzy — ugh. Lord of the flies, anyway," Crowley said, his words slurring one into the other. "They must'a told you...?"

Dagon gave a vague rumble. "You're sulking cuz your Lilith doesn't like you anymore."

He curled his lip. "Summin like that," he said, looking at his feet. If he'd been sober, he'd have snapped at them for even mentioning Aziraphale, but now the alcohol had got in his veins, he couldn't quite be bothered. His tongue was getting looser by the moment. "He's... He's so hot, Dags..."

"Hm?" they said, draining the last of their glass, barely paying attention. Love didn't interest them. If rambling on about 'his Lilith', as they put it, pulled him out of his sulk, then so be it. They'd brought the alcohol for a reason. It helped take the edge off his anger, and kept the boredom at bay a little longer.

"Yeah. Like... you'd think the man's an incubus," he said, his eyes glazing over as he recalled every detail of Aziraphale's face. He could say far soppier things but, even drunk, showing such emotions among demonic company wasn't a good idea. Better to stick to the carnal, sinful side of things. "You know. Rather than a — "

 _Principality_ was the next word on his tongue, but he managed to choke it back just in time. Dagon gave him an odd side-glance. "What?"

"Out."

"Huh?" they said, disorientated.

"Out!" Crowley barked, flicking his wrist. Their chair toppled over, tipping them out onto the floor. A grumbling, drunk demon picked themselves up from the ground and shuffled to the door, leaving without argument. It was par for the course when dealing with Lucifer. He was temperamental and emotional, but far too powerful to argue with, especially now. He ruled, and his word was law. It was as simple as that. Demons liked simple.

Dagon slunk back through the offices, sullen and wobbly. Beelzebub watched them go with a note of satisfaction. Good. They hadn't succeeded either; Lucifer's mood was not improved, and so long as they had an equal share of failure, they could accept that. Both demons had known him for long enough to realise that whatever was bothering him, he'd be determined to go through it alone. He didn't trust them. Fair enough, really. Dukes and Princes of Hell were proudly untrustworthy. 

Exhibit A: Hastur and Ligur, lurking in their dank corner, scheming as hard as their little brains could manage. They had a different theory. "It's not love that bothers him. He's Satan," Hastur said in an undertone, as if it was obvious. "Love’s petty. Small. He has more important problems."

Ligur nodded. "It's that angel up there," he said, nodding at the ceiling. "Interfering. Thwarting. Making a nuisance of himself."

"Needs to be stopped," he surmised. His dark eyes stared vacantly at the floor. Disjointed, rusty cogs whirred in his head. "We could kidnap him. The master might enjoy a new plaything."

Ligur grinned. "That _would_ cheer him up. His own toy angel," he said, leering “ _And_ it's his old rival. What's that human saying...? Kill two birds with one scone?"

Hastur scoffed, shaking his head. "No. It's kill two birds with one _loan_ ," he said derisively. Ligur made a fascinated noise. Human idioms were so odd, but they'd become a fashion ever since Lucifer began using them. "We should get to the surface before daylight. Surprise him."

"I'll get the crowbar."


	5. In For A Penny

Aziraphale sat in Crowley's flat for three days, wishing he'd come home. This _was_ home to him, wasn't it? Unless... Unless he'd gone back to some other place he'd lived on earth. He had always liked Japan — especially now they'd become so modern. Aziraphale had never been. They'd briefly mentioned visiting it together, since he was so fond of sushi and all, but... well, of course, it never came to anything. Another idle daydream. He ached for Crowley; the poor demon must have been desperate to escape the memories of his broken heart. Aziraphale felt guilty tears well in his eyes whenever he thought of those quiet, defeated footsteps leaving his shop the year before. He longed to hear them now, sauntering through the foyer... It was too much to hope for, in the end. Crowley wasn't coming back. 

Aziraphale left the flat, dejected but not defeated. As he made his way down the stairs, he began to think of ways to contact his oldest friend. What was it that demon, Eric, said? Erm... Tune in to channel 666 — was it AM or FM? — and ask the operator for The Bentley. What was the plate number again? NAIC RUT, or... or... could it be NAI RUC? Blast it! He should've paid more attention to that bloody car. He must still be driving it, surely, because —

Oh. He paused outside the block of flats, beside a distinctive black Bentley with a red wheel clamp. Crowley must've put it there himself. He wouldn't want anyone stealing it... NIAT RUC, that was the number plate, not that it did him much good now. He'd have thought Crowley would've taken it to Japan with him, or wherever else he could've gone. He loved his car. Then again, he'd loved Aziraphale too, but look what that got him. Hanging his head in shame, he hailed a cab, got inside, and wallowed in self-pity until the first traffic jam hit. Then, he wracked his brains, wondering if he had any occult tomes in his collection. There had to be at least one genuine Satan-summoning ritual somewhere in his shop. That wily old snake wasn't getting away from him that easily. 

He got out of the cab outside his shop with a plan in his mind. He'd start in the back room, where he kept his most questionable and possibly-illegal literature, and work outwards. Maybe he'd try a ouija board over a snack break, too. Couldn't hurt to try. 

His fingers barely brushed the doorknob when an uncomfortably warm, putrid scent hit his nose. His muscles stiffened. Was that...? Evil? It certainly wasn't _Crowley's_ evil. His was more musky, like aftershave, somewhat pleasant really... He stepped down from his front door, flexing his hands as he peered up and down the darkening, abandoned street. The shadows swam and whispered to themselves. "Hello?" he called, tentatively walking a little further down the footpath. The black mouth of an alleyway yawned beside his shop, smothering the half-light. "Is anybody there?"

He craned his neck to peer around the corner. He fidgeted nervously. Crowley wouldn't be coming to save him this time, if he got himself in trouble. He squared his shoulders and tried to be brave. "Show yourself," he said. The scent of evil grew thicker. "Who goes there?"

Pain exploded in his temples. He cried out as the floor tilted, slamming into his face; his ears rang. The crowbar clattered to the ground beside his face, the last sound he heard before his mind folded in on itself and plunged him into unconsciousness. Ligur stood over him. "He's down," he called into the dark.

Hastur slunk out from the alley. "That was easy," he said. "Makes you wonder why the master didn't do it before."

"Less wonderin', more draggin'," he said, grasping Aziraphale by the ankles. "I want my rewards."

Gabriel's pager beeped. He sighed, picking it up, reading it by the glaring white light of Heaven. Aziraphale's corporation had sent out an automatic distress signal. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. What had that fool done now...? He tossed it aside. If he got discorporated before he launched an inquest, fine. That saved him some work. If he was still alive in an hour or two, he'd look into it. Until then, Aziraphale was on his own. 

Crowley wasn't sulking. The Devil didn't _sulk._ He was brooding, in proper dark and dramatic fashion, on his throne. He'd sobered up for fear he'd start crying; his reputation might never recover if Beelzebub found him sobbing on the floor of his room. So, he swallowed back his pain, and stormed down from his tower to shout at people and... well, sulk. He was seriously considering a nap, too. A year or two's rest might do wonders for his mood. As he silently mulled it over, Beelzebub shuffled back and forth behind his throne with a clipboard, buzzing to themselves like a restless filament lightbulb. Crowley covered his face with one hand, bored out of his mind. He was starting to remember why he didn't live in Hell full-time.

The doors shrieked open. He sighed, refusing to lift his head. His hand rested over his eyes, blocking out what little murky light trickled in from the fires outside. He already recognised the sound of Hastur's lumbering footfalls, followed by Ligur, and whatever else they'd brought with them. They did this sometimes. He could hear the steady step-and-heave rhythm as they dragged something heavy across the stone floor; probably some damned soul they'd randomly selected to "sacrifice" to him. He wasn't that big on human sacrifices, but they never listened. He heard a thump as they finally stopped before the throne, and dropped their quarry. There was an expectant silence.

Crowley huffed, rubbing his eyelids. "What?"

"We bring a gift, lord," Ligur said with dark excitement. "For your pleasure."

He grimaced. He really needed to figure out what kind of retirement package would convince Ligur to bugger off and never speak to him again. He took a deep breath, and finally cracked one eye open, dreading what kind of sight he'd be met with. He immediately choked on thin air. No, they hadn't — they didn't — He gulped, sitting bolt upright in his throne. Hastur and Ligur shared a smug glance as Beelzebub peered around the throne to see what the fuss was about.

"What the fuck is this supposed to be?" he said harshly. He daren't move. This couldn't be real. Lying face-down on the stone was a man-shaped creature, plump beneath his outmoded clothes. It couldn't be him. It was impossible. 

"Tonight's entertainment," Hastur leered with a derisive glance at the unconscious form. "An unspoilt angel. Your earthly nemesis."

Crowley twitched. "Tonight's _what?"_ he said harshly. Fire began to creep up his throat. Beelzebub shrank back, out of view, with a mocking smirk. Ligur's smile dropped. 

Hastur blinked. "Entertai — "

A bolt of demonic energy struck him in the chest, slamming him to the ground. Crowley stormed down from his throne, a snarl rolling up from his chest. Ligur scrambled out of his path. Hastur wheezed, trying to sit up, when a snakeskin boot pinned him back down by his chest. He froze, trembling, staring up at the figure looming over him, radiating heat that made the air shudder around him. "You shut your mouth, _toad,"_ he barked, grinding his heel into his chest, making him groan in pain. He leant over, lip curled, each word drawn out in a long, venomous hiss. "You lisssten to me. You do _not_ talk about him that way. You understand that?"

Hastur squirmed, eyes wild in confusion and terror. "Y — Yes!"

Crowley hardened his glare, lifting his foot from Hastur's chest, only pausing to snap his fingers; Hastur went limp against the stone, shuddering and spasming as a night terror took hold. Crowley turned back to the angel on the floor. His anger dissipated, washed away by the wave of aching, ancient love crashing over him. He took a deep, trembling breath. Aziraphale was here, his angel, with a bloody streak in his hair and grit clinging to his face. He knelt beside him, gently rolling him over to cup his face, and brush away the worst of the dirt. He was grazed, bruised, and unconscious... but alive. Crowley swallowed thickly, running the smooth back of his talon over his cheek. He thought he'd never see him again. How could anyone dream of hurting him? He daren't look over to where Hastur had fallen, lest his temper get the better of him — again. Aziraphale was more important right now, anyway. He leant down, scooping him into his arms. 

His eyes flicked between Beelzebub and Ligur, two demons frozen in abject confusion. "No one lays a finger on this angel," he said, curling his lip. He saw the realisation click into place in Beelzebub's eyes. "Don't touch him, don't look at him, don't even _think_ about him. Do I make myself clear?"

Both demons quickly averted their eyes and muttered their agreements. Crowley grunted, and shouldered past them, heading for the back door. Beelzebub took the risk of shooting his retreating back one last glance, just to make sure they hadn't hallucinated the whole thing. They really hadn't. Lucifer was carrying an angel bridal-style toward his tower, without a hint of malevolent intent about him. They hummed thoughtfully. Who would've thought it? They glanced over to Ligur, who was now kicking Hastur in the ribs in an attempt to wake him up, and snickered. Not those two, obviously. Hastur was lucky to have survived. They were fortunate that they’d brought the angel back alive and relatively unharmed, unwittingly delivering him back to the Devil who loved him and — for some reason — had lost him. That accidental success could well be their saving grace. Besides, this mess may yet have a silver lining for all of them. If Lucifer's love was back in his arms again, there was half a chance he'd cheer up now... and another half that he'd get even worse. Everything hinged on what the angel did next. 

After the allotted hour, no discorporation notification had come through to Gabriel's pager. He hummed. Odd. He checked the system, just to make sure he hadn't missed anything. The communications relay could be slow sometimes... He clicked on Aziraphale's page, scrolling to the bottom, where there ought to have been a blinking light that notified them of his location, placed helpfully on the little pixelated earth. It wasn't there. He frowned, spinning the model around, just in case he'd moved somewhere else. Still, the dot didn't present itself. Wherever Aziraphale was, he wasn't on earth. 

But... if he wasn't there, and he certainly wasn't _here_ , then... Well, there was only one other place he could be, and for a sickening moment, Gabriel began to wonder whether he ought not to have ignored that first distress signal.

Aziraphale groaned. What happened? He swam back to consciousness in a haze of confusion. Why was he asleep in the first place, anyway? He never slept! There were things to do! What things, though, he wasn't quite sure... His eyelids flickered, staying mutinously shut as he tried to push himself awake. Something familiar made his nose twitch; a musky, evil scent, too familiar to ever be overpowering. Ah, yes. That was it. He was supposed to be finding Crowley. 

Wait.

His eyes snapped open. Unfamiliar sights bombarded him, dark masonry and red drapes, as he scrambled to sit up. His heart jolted. Evil sat heavy in the air, tangled with distant screams from beyond the tall arched windows. The room was quiet. He gripped nervously at the silky black sheets underneath him, teasing more of Crowley's distinctive evil musk from the fabric with every nervous twist. Memories of before swam to the surface; the demonic stench in the alley... Aziraphale's hand flew to the back of his head, remembering the crowbar as if it had struck him again. He'd been kidnapped. He was in Hell, and... and there was only one person here who would leave him on a soft bed rather than a dank prison cell. He swallowed hard. Maybe Crowley hadn't forgotten him after all, but a cynical corner of his mind wondered if that was a good thing. He smoothed his hands over his clothes — all present and correct — and crane his neck to see out the window. Could he escape that way? Did he even want to? It looked like a very long drop, if his wings couldn't catch an updraft. He chewed on his lip and mulled over why Crowley might've sent his demons after him so suddenly, after so long. Only one thing came to mind.

The antichrist needed to be conceived soon. Perhaps... Perhaps Crowley wasn't prepared to take no for an answer. Not that he expected to be forced, of course; he'd have been more worried about that if he'd woken up tied to the bed. Maybe Crowley had brought him down here to make him an offer — a new one. Could an angel bear the antichrist? He mulled it over slowly, wondering what he could even say in the face of such a proposition. It wasn't that he wouldn't _enjoy_ it perhaps, but... well, it was what came next that was the problem. Blast the war! He didn't want it anyway. Not after that awful nightmare. He couldn't bear the idea of Crowley risking his life in battle. He'd just have to explain that to him. 

The double doors creaked, startling him from his thoughts. He held his breath as a set of long, claw-tipped fingers curled around the edge of the door and pushed it open. A familiar figure stepped inside. Aziraphale blinked in surprise. Crowley avoided eye contact as he slunk over to the bedside, while the angel stared in awe at his new appearance, his sharp features accented by a smattering of dark scales over his cheekbones, and black horns that followed the curve of his skull until they turned sharply upward at the tips.

"Crowley?" he said tremulously as the demon pulled up a chair, his eyes dipping lower than he would usually consider polite as he took in his new appearance. He looked so much more... demonic, than before.

He cringed a bit. "Yeah. Going for a new look," he said. He leant heavily on his knees. There was a long silence. "You been alright?"

"In a manner of speaking," he mumbled. Crowley grunted and nodded, trying his level best to stay civil and distant. "Did... Did you bring me here with... something in mind?"

"Sorry?"

Aziraphale tutted out of habit. "You had me beaten around the head and locked in your bedroom. I'm understandably a tad confused."

"Wh — No — ! That wasn't me!" he said, eyes wide, sitting bolt upright. He flapped his hands at the door. "It was my bloody dukes! The nutjobs went and took it upon themselves to go angel-hunting, as if it might cheer me up if I had one to — well. You know."

He winced. "Quite," he said. There was a long catalogue of things that a truly evil demon-lord could've done with an angelic prisoner. This changed things. It did seem odd, being kidnapped on Crowley's behalf, especially so carelessly. The Crowley he knew would've ordered his kidnapping to be a far more gentle affair. 

Crowley cleared his throat awkwardly. "Right. Sorry about that, then. Misunderstanding. Won't happen again," he said, standing from the bedside chair and beckoning him up. This was uncomfortable enough as it was, without falling to the temptation to beg him to stay. "I'll show you out. Hell's no place for someone like you."

He slumped. "Oh... But I only just got here," he said, glancing over his shoulder at the expanse of decadently silky sheets. "I, um... I've been looking for you."

Crowley sat heavily back down as if someone had cut his hamstrings. "You have?" 

He nodded, twisting his signet ring around. "I was awfully worried. Your flat is empty, your car left behind, and I... I thought..." he said, and trailed off. Crowley burned with unease.

"I couldn't... I..." he said, then coughed. He abandoned the truth, falling back on a taciturn lie: "Felt like a change."

"Well, I don't!" he said, impulsively reaching over to grasp his hand. Crowley jumped. "I was a damned fool to turn you away."

"You were?" Crowley said dumbly, wondering if he really had sobered up earlier, or if he was actually blacked out under his desk, dreaming wishful dreams. Aziraphale nodded, his expression turning suddenly frantic as he grasped his hand tighter, hoping to feel him reciprocate. This had to work. He had to win him back. 

"Please, my dear... I don't want to fight a war," he pleaded. "I have faith that the world can be good without having to pay for it in blood, even if Heaven doesn't. I should've listened to you. I can't bear to see you risk your life for a cause that isn't your own."

"You always were a dreamer," he said with a wry, fond smile. He gave Aziraphale's hand a light, experimental squeeze. "Wouldn't have you any other way."

He sighed, the tension in his body beginning to unravel. "Would it be too much, dear, if I asked you to forgive me?" he asked, ducking his head. "I fear I had my priorities dreadfully out of order, when you came clean. What I said... it was — well, unforgivable."

"Nah, it was about what I expected," he said, glancing away. His voice was heavy with shame. "I lied to you for almost six thousand years."

"I don't think you did," he said, rubbing his thumb over the back of his hand. He looked him in the eye, drinking in that familiar sight. "You're Crowley. You always have been. That's the truth, isn't it?"

It shocked a giddy smile out of him, and a half-disbelieving laugh. "Yeah. It is," he said, overflowing with love. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the warm tears gathering there. He felt a tingling sensation in his chest, of a deep well of power suddenly growing even deeper. Aziraphale leaned in, eyes fluttering shut. Crowley wasted no time in closing the gap.

He let out an involuntary groan against his lips, a shock running all the way down his spine. He pulled back with a gasp, his hands on either side of Aziraphale's face. "What?" said the angel, worry clouding his expression. "Is something wrong?"

"No, it's — I think that kickstarted something," he said, breathing heavily.

Aziraphale's eyebrows climbed higher. "Oh. I see."

"Ngk — not like that," he hissed, his cheeks warming up. "My power. It had sort of stagnated, but... I think it's growing again."

"You weren't already at full strength?" he said, taken aback.

"Not yet," he said with a wicked smile, leaning in for another kiss, and another thrill of power. He hummed indulgently against his mouth. "That's really up to you."

"Ah," he said, in-between the gentle, hungry presses of his lips. What a responsibility... He subconsciously reached around Crowley, feeling the tingle of infernal power under his skin. He found himself liking it. He wanted to know what it would feel like, when he was returned to his former glory. "In that case... what can I do to help?"

Crowley's eyebrows quirked up. "Seriously?"

"Of course. I have so much kindness to pay back. So much love to return," he said, laying a hand on his knee. Crowley's cheeks heated up. He knew what he wanted to try; if each kiss they shared nudged him further on the path to full recovery, he began to wonder what else might help. He swiped his tongue around his mouth, grappling with that old memory that kept resurfacing — _you go too fast for me, Crowley._ He finally had his angel back. Dare he risk asking? Was it too much? He glanced over Aziraphale's shoulder at the vast expanse of bed behind him, weighing it up... but for once in his life, Aziraphale picked up on that subtle cue, and he acted first. He urged Crowley onto the mattress. "Ah, I see. Why didn't you just say so, dear?"

"Ngk — angel, really? This isn't — This isn't too fast?" he said, even as he climbed up beside him, anticipation bucking in his chest. 

"I'm afraid I've been dawdling behind far too long already, my love," he said, smiling, batting his eyelashes. "And believe you me, I _want_ you in tip-top condition."

Crowley leaned over him, so tempted, but still hesitating. "You're _sure?"_ he said, brow creased skeptically. "There's no going back after this, angel."

"Well, you know what they say," he said with a shrug, lying back against the pillows with a contented sigh, pulling his bow-tie loose. "In for a penny, in for a pound."

Gabriel reached the infernal plane quietly, without a whisper of the usual fanfare he arrived with. His whole angelic essence was carefully folded down many times into a specially designed corporation, hiding his inner light from even the most eagle-eyed demons. He landed on the inner edge of the wall surrounding the dark city which bristled from the stinking, smoky wastelands, cut through with icy roads and rivers of grey, half-stagnant water. He shuddered. This place was detestable, but there was one thing he was certain of. Aziraphale was here. 

He turned his gaze over the jagged, poorly made rooftops, toward the towering sprawl of a castle whose many gables and buttresses tapered into a fine point at the centre, where a single lonely tower stretched high into the skyline. Somewhere among the black masonry, from that great distance, he could've sworn he saw a pinprick of light. Someone was in there. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that he could sense angelic light, too. That was Aziraphale's prison, and Gabriel had no illusions about what kind of demon lived in the tallest tower in Hell.

He set out towards it, trusting in the Almighty to guide him as he wove through the streets, and ducked out of sight when he caught someone looking his way for too long. He was heading right for Lucifer's tower. It didn't bother him, of course. By now, the devil would be little more than an insect to be swatted — a pathetic excuse for a demon, really! Gabriel would have no trouble rescuing Aziraphale from his evil clutches. He was surprised the principality couldn't manage it himself, actually. No matter. He always was a dithering fool — not that he'd have much more to mess up before the world ended, of course, and nobody needed to dwell on the earthly years once it was all over. All would be well, because Heaven was sure to win.

By the time they both lay panting, lost somewhere among the luxurious sheets, Crowley was burning with energy — of the occult kind, not the physical. They'd gone a few rounds, just to make sure. Crowley stretched his spine, popping the vertebrae with a hum of sated satisfaction. His skin had darkened to a rich red colour, with black scales painting the hollows of his eye-sockets like war-paint. He sat up, blinking in surprise as he finally noticed that he'd grown a few feet taller somewhere along the line. When had that happened? He was enormous! Aziraphale watched his expression, smiling at the endearing surprise written across his face as he took in his new form; he was still his Crowley, even now. 

"Feeling better?" Aziraphale said, still catching his breath.

"You have no idea," he groaned, rolling his neck. He was back — really, properly back. Six thousand years of decay, and it was all gone. He grinned. "You're a miracle worker, angel."

"Tsk. I don't think my side would like me using my powers for such things," he said, his relaxed expression finally wavering as he glanced skyward. "I don't think they'd like this at all, come to think of it."

"They're going to have to get through me if they've got a problem with it," he said, cracking his knuckles. "And I'd like to see them try."

"Best not to aggravate things," he said, reaching up to grasp his arm placatingly. He felt the sheer force of the magic under his skin like a roiling ocean, just as vast and twice as deep, sending a flutter through him. "Let's just lie low for a while, hm? Nobody has to know just yet."

Crowley hummed, swayed by his worry. It would be nice to kick back and relax for a few years before Heaven noticed something was up — if they ever did. They were sometimes no smarter than demons, being that they were all of the same stock. Anyway, Aziraphale had already taken several huge leaps in the last few hours, and Crowley didn't have it in him to force another one onto him so soon. If he wanted to wait, they'd wait. He nodded, smoothing down his temper.

"Alright. It's just between us, for now," he said, and then glanced toward the door. "... and all of Hell."

He paled. "What?"

"They're going to notice this, angel," he said, making a broad gesture at his form, which was considerably larger, redder and, upon closer inspection, may even be glowing a little bit around the edges. "I left my corporation in the office. I'm going to have to walk down and get it before we go home."

"Home?" he said, brightening up again. "You're coming back to Earth?"

"Course I'm coming back. What kind of a question is that?" he said, trying to shrug off his endearing excitement. "Can't leave you up there on your own. You'll go spare without me around to keep you occupied."

"I admit, it's been awfully dull on my own," he said. He paused, and smiled up at him hopefully. "But... would you mind, terribly, if we had a bite to eat before we leave? I've worked up quite an appetite."

He chuckled. "I'll sort something out," he said. He snapped his fingers, clothing his larger form in his classic ensemble of black clothes. "Sit tight. I'll be back in a minute."

Crowley stepped out of the room, sauntering down the stairs as he had many times before. He was struck again by how much taller he'd become when he reached the ground floor, and found himself towering over a demon loitering in the hall outside. The demon jumped, eyes widening as they tracked all the way up to his face. "My lord!" they squeaked, bowing whilst also stumbling backwards, before turning tail to sprint away. Crowley watched him go with a chuckle; he didn’t even have to say a word.

"Could get used to that," he said, with a smug curl in his lips. He continued down the corridor with a spring in his step, passing by open office spaces and break rooms. Everywhere he went, gasps followed, then petrified silence. Many demons didn't even get a proper look at the black-and-red phantom prowling the halls; they felt only a chill down their spine in his wake, and the tug of an ancient memory at the edge of their minds, from back in the primordial days of the Fall. 

Crowley pushed his way into his office, humming a tune, thinking of what he'd take over to Aziraphale for breakfast. Crêpes, maybe, for the nostalgia? Or was that too predictable? He might prefer some Belgian waffles, or even a fry-up. He pondered it while he skirted around his red marble desk to the wardrobe in the corner, opening the doors. A body bag hung on the rail, its contents kept upright against the stiff backboard by rubber fastenings. He picked it out, tucking it under his arm. He didn’t have the heart to get rid of this old thing, and now he was glad he hadn’t. This corporation had served him well for many long years. He heard footsteps by the office door, but didn’t turn around until the new arrival cleared their throat. Beelzebub stood in the doorway, their eyes wide, flicking up and down his new-and-improved form. He hadn't been this way for eons.

"It was... It was him?" they said, hesitating for a moment. “All along? An angel?”

"Yep," he said, looming over them, now almost twice their height. “Got a problem with that, Bee?”

They shook their head, buzzing nervously deep in their throat as they tried to escape the deep shadow thrown over them. “No!” they said. “I wouldn’t _dare_ , my Lord. The angel is untouchable. I understand.”

Crowley grunted in acceptance, nodding. “Good,” he said, backing off. Beelzebub slumped in relief. The sheer oppressive presence eased off their shoulders as he turned his eyes back toward his desk. “The demons probably have questions, don’t they?”

They nodded. "You probably won't answer most of them, though," they replied knowingly.

"True," he said. He snapped his fingers , conjuring a covered silver platter which he picked up with his free hand. He fixed them with a firm look. "Look, I get it. He isn’t what you were all hoping for, but here’s the thing: you don't have to like it. You just have to keep your mouth shut."

"Understood, sir," they said, bowing their head in deference. With Crowley at full power once again, they couldn't hope to struggle against him and win — not that they wanted to. Under his rule, they had rank, authority and even a certain level of freedom. He was quite a liberal boss, all told. Like he said; they didn't have to like his personal choices, they just had to accept them. So long as they did that, they could keep everything he'd given them. They glanced at the platter in his hand. "Will your... companion... be needing anything else?"

He mulled it over for a moment. "Do we still have that bloody great hellhound lying around somewhere?"

"Yes. We were saving it for the Antichrist, until the plan changed," they said, bemused. 

"Good. Have it sent up to my tower," he said, then went to add on an afterthought, only for the words to be stolen from his mouth. A scream echoed through the halls of his castle. Crowley was used to that — screams were the bread and butter of Hell, after all — but he hadn't been prepared to hear a bone-chilling shriek of his angel cutting through the smoke. His face fell. Beelzebub shrieked, knocked down by a wave of infernal magic as Crowley roared, thundering back through the castle toward his tower, with one word on his lips: 

_"Aziraphale!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe... in for a penny, in for a pounding, eh Aziraphale?


	6. The Penny Drops

After Crowley left the room, Aziraphale had crawled back up to the headboard, pulling the silken sheets up around his waist, tucking them neatly around his hips. He fluffed the pillows to support his back, reclining in the centre of the enormous mattress. He was starting to see the appeal of sleep, with a bed this big and luxurious. Even so, the memory of his nightmare hadn't yet faded, and he wasn't eager to repeat it. He lounged on the bed, eyes shut, sighing occasionally as he daydreamed about all the places they'd go and the things they'd do together when they were back on earth.

They were free now. How incredible... Heaven itself couldn't challenge the forces of Hell, united under their king, without losing the fight. They had no choice but to leave them be, to save the earth, however grudgingly. He chuckled to himself as he wriggled in delight, settling deeper into the pillows. He was pretty sure he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He smiled, arranging himself so the sheets hugged the outline of his body below the waist, in just the type of coy temptation he knew would drive Crowley wild. Any moment now...! He shut his eyes, finding a nice comfortable position on the pillows.

One of the great double-doors creaked slowly. Aziraphale grinned. "You certainly know how to keep an angel in suspense, my de — " he began, casting a teasing glance over to the door which quickly morphed into one of pure horror. He shrieked, a long shrill noise, snatching the blankets up to cover his bare chest, scrambling back against the headboard as if hoping it would swallow him. _"Gabriel!"_

The archangel stood in the doorway, his jaw on the floor, and not in the complementary sense. "Aziraphale, what in God's name are you doing...?" he said, quiet as a ticking bomb. 

"I — I — can explain!" he cried, despite the fact that he couldn't. There were really not many excuses you could devise when your boss discovers you, obviously posing, in his arch-rival's bed.

"You had better have a very good explanation for this," he snapped, storming in with broad gestures at the bed. "Couldn't you have resisted?"

He paused, unsure what sort of turn this conversation had taken. "Resisted...?"

"What could they have threatened you with that was possibly worse than this?" he continued. "Debasing yourself like this — I mean, really? I'm putting you back through the _Unshakeable Constitution_ course when you get back to head office. This is unacceptable."

A distant rumble shook the castle, down to the very stonework. Gabriel frowned. Aziraphale glanced around nervously as the masonry began to quiver, shuddering with the force of an oncoming storm — or something far, far larger. Gabriel held out his hands to steady himself, but the shaking only got worse, and the rumble built into a roar that thundered down the castle halls and up the tower: _"Aziraphale!"_

The archangel blanched. He knew that voice. He'd heard it scream in the throes of defeat as he plunged down from Heaven, but there was nothing left of that hoarse, desperate shriek now. The voice was like a force of nature. He whipped around to stare at Aziraphale, caught red-handed in the devil's bed, and began to recalculate. "What have you done?" he breathed, his voice lost in the cacophony surging closer to the tower. He glanced frantically over his shoulder. Through a crack in the enormous doors, he could see a fiery glow lighting the spiral stairwell, growing rapidly brighter. He lurched toward Aziraphale. _"What have you done?"_

Wood splintered as an enormous red fist punched through the door, flinging splinters and fragments through the air. The hand slammed onto the stone floor with enough force to make Gabriel stumble against the desk with a strangled cry. Each digit was as long as Aziraphale was tall, and topped with a vicious black talon. Crowley forced the rest of his arm into the room, dragging himself through the ruined mess of the doors with a grunt, his shoulders spanning the entire width of the ceiling as his spine stooped for him to loom over the scene. He was _monstrous._ Gabriel cowered against the desk. Crowley panted through gritted teeth, each breath burning hot and sulphurous, making the archangel retch. 

"You've got nerve, coming here," Crowley snarled, his voice booming. Aziraphale clutched the sheets tighter around himself, feeling every syllable vibrate through the air. Crowley glanced over to him, and spoke softer: "You alright, angel?"

He nodded breathlessly, not quite able to summon any words. He shuffled backwards, away from the side of the bed where Gabriel stood. There was no hiding it now. The cat was out of the bag, far quicker than he'd have liked, and he had no idea what would happen to him now. Heaven couldn't forgive this. He glanced up at the giant red figure, his waist still wedged in the doorframe, hunched over to fit inside the room; Aziraphale reminded himself not to fear. Crowley was better now. He would be safe, so long as they were together; they both would be. 

"How — ? You — You're supposed to be withering away!" Gabriel screamed, though try as he might, he couldn't quite match the booming voice of his interlocutor. He whipped around to glare at Aziraphale, an unhinged, petrified glint in his eye. "This is your fault, isn't it?"

"No prizes for guessing that, I'm afraid," he said weakly, with a sheepish smile. He was in a rather compromising position, after all. Gabriel's glare grew even more acidic, but it had nothing on the magma boiling in Crowley's yellow eyes. "What can I say? He's a devilishly charming fellow once you get to know him."

"Traitor!" the archangel barked. Aziraphale flinched.

"S'not a nice word. I ought to have your wings mounted on the wall for talking to him like that," Crowley growled, stung by the comment just by seeing the way his lover's expression fell. Gabriel cringed as Crowley leaned even further over him, his teeth bared in a broad, sarcastic smile. "But you know what, maybe I'm feeling generous today... I'm in need of a messenger boy, and that's s'posed to be your gig, right? How about I cut you a deal?"

Gabriel daren't make any sudden movements. He was backed into a corner, teetering on the edge of annihilation. It was make-do-or-die time. "... go on."

"Good lad. Now, listen closely... You go back Upstairs, and tell ‘em the Great Plan is off. You can shove your heavenly war up your arse — oh, and I'm keeping the principality," he said, a huge forked tongue darting out as he spoke. Aziraphale shivered, each lash of that tongue sending a rush of air over his skin. "Capiche?"

The archangel grimaced, staring in disbelief. "What do you mean, off? It can't be off. It's the Plan!" he raged, trying to square his shoulders and face up to the colossal entity above him, and not quite managing it. Crowley shrugged, wrinkling his nose in a way that made Aziraphale chuckle. 

"Nah."

"Wh — you can't just — you _can't_ do that!" he said, clenching his fists and clearly fighting the urge to hop up and down in rage. 

Crowley sneered. "Watch me, pipsqueak," he said, and slammed his hand down onto Gabriel with a sickening crunch. Aziraphale winced, looking away as Crowley lifted up his palm, trailing the bloody mess of Gabriel's corporation behind it. "Ugh. He's as disgusting discorporated as he was alive."

"Couldn't you have, I don't know, used a glass and piece of paper instead? Thrown him out the window?" Aziraphale said. He was relieved to hear Crowley snap his fingers, though it was loud enough to make his ears ring, ridding them of the crushed remains.

"Heat of the moment," he said, then cursed. "I forgot my bloody corporation. I dropped everything when I heard you scream."

"Well. In any case, I'm very grateful," he said, sitting up and letting the sheets fall back around his waist again. With a small sigh, Crowley leaned down, resting his chin on the mattress beside him. He made it look more like a pillow when he rested on it. Aziraphale rolled over, pressing a kiss to his top lip.

"Ooh. That tickles," Crowley said. His light chuckle reverberated through Aziraphale's whole body. Aziraphale ran his hand down his cheek, feeling very delicate all of a sudden. Maybe this is what being mortal felt like, faced with the endlessness of everything else by comparison. "Were you always this small?"

"You've grown, dear," he said, rolling his eyes. He could tell that Crowley's gaze was turning from loving to lustful as the blankets pooled by his hips, and decided to change the subject before they got distracted again. "Crowley. You will make sure they don't bother us at home, won't you?"

He reached over the mattress with one hand, using the smooth curve of one claw to rub his back in a comforting movement. "Course. We'll have the whole world, all to ourselves," he said, letting Aziraphale lean back against his hand with a sigh. "Nobody but us, humanity, and the dogs."

His eyes popped open. "Dogs?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah. It was s'posed to be a surprise," he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck and beginning to shrink down again. His body contracted and popped as joints rearranged themselves before finally dropping Crowley back onto the sheets beside Aziraphale, at a slightly more normal nine feet tall. "They'll be here in a minute."

As if on cue, rapid footsteps began to ascend the staircase. Obviously, somebody had been waiting for the boss to finish up with his fire-and-brimstone routine before they made their delivery. With a yelp, Aziraphale dragged the blankets back up to cover himself; he was about to make a snide comment about locking the door, only to realise that the doors lay in shattered pieces on the floor. A few shards of wood skittered over the stone as a large grey dog bounded in. It might have been mistaken for an Irish Wolfhound, if not for its deep crimson eyes. It launched itself onto the bed, tail wagging furiously, and buried its nose in Crowley's side. He grinned, patting its head. 

"This is Rover, my hellhound," Crowley said, and turned his eyes toward the door, to the sound of a rattling chain and a deep, rumbling snarl advancing up the stairs. "And that... is yours."

Aziraphale jumped slightly when the hound lurched into view, its wet nose snuffling at the air, scenting angel blood. A little of Gabriel must still be left on the stone. The poor demon who'd been trying to wrangle the beast dragged along behind it, on the other end of the heavy chain meant to keep it under control. The hellhound stood even taller and broader than Rover, its black-and-white coat pulled taught over its terrible strength. Perhaps it was trying to look like a Great Dane, but missed the mark a little, with a set of enormous yellowish teeth jutting out from his loose jowls, and nothing in his eyes but deep, endless darkness. His long pointed ears angled back and forth, listening for the scuffles of easy prey... Aziraphale hummed.

"What's his name?" he asked.

"Dunno. That's your job," he said, wrapping an arm around him. "Careful, though — hellhounds get their purpose from their name. You know, Throat-Ripper, Stalks-By-Night, that kind of thing."

He huffed. "Well, those are awful names!" he said, holding out his hands to beckon the hound over. Sensing his master, the dog leapt forward, snatching the chain from the lesser demon's hands without hesitation to jump onto the bed where Aziraphale lay. Crowley dismissed the demon with a wave of his hand, and they slunk back down the stairs, grumbling and rubbing their aching palms. 

"Have you got a better idea?" he scoffed, idly stroking Rover's head as he began to doze off against his master's side. 

Aziraphale took his hound's face in his hands, rubbing its cheeks with his thumbs as he thought. The dog seemed bemused by the affection. He had no concept of it. "I shall call him Benevolence," he said eventually, very pleased with himself. "Ben, for short."

 _"What?"_ Crowley said, wrinkling his nose in distaste, but the damage was done. Benevolence blinked, his eyes gaining a white sclera which turned his gaze from cavernous darkness into a soft, puppy-eyed look. He still had his teeth and size, though; love was both soft and ferocious, as Aziraphale well knew. "No! You can't do that!"

"Why not?" he said when Ben whined and lay down with him, rolling onto his back to beg for scratches. Aziraphale happily obliged. "See? He's very sweet. It suits him."

"Sw — ? Only because — ! Angel!"

"Yes, dear?" he said, fluttering his eyelashes. "I only named him, like you said."

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "You've ruined a perfectly good hellhound is what you've done. Look at him, he wants belly rubs!" he said, flapping his hands.

"Oh, and I suppose Rover is the picture of a fierce, hard-hearted guard dog, then, is he?" he said, with a pointed look at the grey dog which was now snoring loudly, with his nose buried in Crowley's shirt. His tail wagged lazily in his sleep. 

"Shut up," he said, crossing his arms petulantly. He wasn't really angry; he shouldn't have expected anything less, really. He was lucky Aziraphale didn't call the dog 'Adam' instead, or some other name from their dim and distant past. 

"Crowley?"

"Hm?"

"Did you fetch breakfast, in the end...?" he said hopefully. Crowley groaned.

"No, I forgot," he said, curling his lip in annoyance. He sat up, startling Rover awake. "Hang on. I dropped it when I heard you call."

"Oh, no no, it's alright," he said, trying to wave him off, though Crowley saw through it. "I've lost my appetite — where are my clothes?"

"Here," he said, snapping his fingers. Aziraphale's clothes reappeared around him, freshly pressed and smelling lightly of detergent. The angel gave a happy wriggle. Finally! No more embarrassing clutching-at-the-sheets when some unexpected visitor came calling to the tower. Ben wagged his tail, happy so long as his master was happy. "Come on. May as well give you the tour while you're here, right? Home-sour-home and all that." 

Aziraphale gladly took his hand, sliding off the mattress after a somewhat undignified crawl to the edge. The width of the bed was designed to accommodate an impressive wingspan, and he resolved to investigate that at a later date. The hellhounds trailed behind them, their claws making a soft clack on the stone as they descended the tower steps to the lower halls. They were empty now. Every demon within earshot of Crowley's bellowing had made themselves scarce, with good reason. Word of his power was spreading like wildfire. Aziraphale glanced back and forth at the long, barren halls. He hummed.

"What?" Crowley said with a huff. He could hear the note of non-judgemental judgement in Aziraphale's voice.

"Nothing, nothing... just.... it's terribly dark, isn't it?" he said. He peered out a window as they passed, looking down at the sulphurous atmosphere hanging over the wasteland of a city below. "Not to mention the soot."

"It's Hell, angel. It's not supposed to be nice," he said, hurrying him along past the long red windows which cast down long rays of scarlet light. "Unless _you_ want to try convincing the legions of Hell to do a bit of spring cleaning."

"I'll remember that," he said, in a voice that threatened to really follow through. 

"Good luck," he sniffed, and paused. He gestured vaguely at the hall they'd stepped into; it was vast, with gothic-style detailing on the walls, carven with faces of demons and hellhounds set forever in infernal masonry. There were no windows, instead lit by a black chandelier, blazing with orange fire. Crowley cleared his throat awkwardly, and gestured to the long ebony table running down the middle. "This is the dining hall."

"It's very nice — or, er, very _not_ nice, rather," he said. Crowley couldn't help a smile. Aziraphale was just trying to say the right thing. "... though it could perhaps use a few house plants, to liven the place up a smidge."

"I'll keep it in mind. Here, sit," he said, pulling out one of the chairs for him. It was originally a hard, unpleasant seat which would needle the user relentlessly, but it quickly replaced those features with plush red upholstery and good lumbar support. It was unwise to antagonise the Devil's lover. Even the furniture knew that. 

"What about the tour?" he said, settling in the chair.

"Once you've seen one fiery pit you've seen them all," he said, referring to the grisly view from the window as they walked. The tour had only been a ploy to get him into the dining room, anyway; he wasn't keen on getting Aziraphale involved in his work life. It was a nasty job at the best of times. He settled into his chair, a seat truly befitting his stature, with a towering back decorated with carvings of toothy monsters and embellished with large, curled ram's horns at the very top. "Anyway, can't have you missing breakfast, not in my domain."

"Ah. Thank you," he said, looking down with a flattered smile. It would take some getting used to, this new dynamic, but it soothed Crowley's nerves to know that Aziraphale wasn't fighting it. His larger form didn't bother him. He'd accepted the hellhounds which curled up under the table. He didn't even seem to mind when Crowley let out a long, sharp whistle, bringing a demon in a dirty chef's hat scurrying in. He hissed a few words in her ear, to which she nodded, and ran off again. She kept her eyes on the ground at all times. 

"My, was she alright?" said the angel, watching her go. There was a clattering and the snapping of fingers from the next room. "She seemed on-edge."

"I'm her boss. She'd better be," he replied, idly picking dirt from under his claws. Aziraphale thought about it for a moment. A scowl overtook his face, just as the demon re-emerged carrying two platters of food, tottering toward the table.

"You weren't rude to her, were you?" he said disapprovingly. The chef demon froze. "I shall be very disappointed if you were."

Crowley floundered for a moment, shooting a helpless glance at the chef as if she'd step in and help him. For her part, she just trembled, absolutely certain that something gruesome was about to happen to somebody — probably her, if the rumours were true. Their master was too fond of this angel to ever harm him. "W — Well! We're demons!" Crowley said. "Rude is good! Or — it's bad, in a good way."

"That's no excuse," he replied. "You've always been polite to the staff when we have dinner together on earth. There's no reason to have a change of heart now. Apologise."

The chef glanced between the two entities, one burning with infernal power and the other drawn up tall with indignation. What an angel! Daring to talk to Lucifer that way! It would end badly for somebody, she was certain, but it was a wonder to behold. The Devil didn't take well to being ordered around. Crowley curled his lip, rapping his claws on the table. She braced for a puff of hellfire, or worse, for those talons to turn on her. Maybe _she_ would end up filleted and served up for breakfast instead of the Parisian crêpes Crowley had ordered. Did angels eat demons? She was about to find out.

"Ffffine," Crowley said through gritted teeth. He turned to the chef. "Sorry. There. I said it."

Aziraphale smiled, brightening up again. "Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" he said. The chef blinked, floored by the turn of events. The angel could _control_ Lucifer? She edged tentatively up to the table, quaking in fear now for a different reason as she was forced to approach the principality. She slid the platters onto the table, bowed, and fled so quickly that she ran into the door instead of opening it. Asmodeus wasn't going to believe this! 

Gabriel called a meeting of the archangels once he'd shaken off the humiliation of being discorporated in Hell. Their table was clean glass, set in a white hall, chokingly silent. Gabriel clasped his hands and forced the image of that giant, crushing hand out of his mind for the fifth time. He cleared his throat. 

"We have a problem," he said slowly. He had to tread carefully here. Aziraphale was his responsibility, and perhaps he'd been too quick to neglect him. "Currently, it seems that the second heavenly war may be... um... scrapped."

There was a heady silence. "What?" Michael said sharply. 

He took a breath. "As I'm sure you've heard, I was discorporated earlier in an attempt to rescue my subordinate from Hell," he said, trying to keep a level head. "I made an important discovery in the field. It... It seems that Lucifer has... risen again."

Michael stiffened. Uriel's jaw dropped. "Impossible!" they cried. "Who could love _him_ , of all the entities in the universe?"

"That would be my subordinate," Gabriel confessed in an undertone. "I discovered Aziraphale in his bed, and I saw the Devil's new form with my own eyes."

Sandalphon wrinkled his nose. "Eurgh."

Gabriel ignored him. "I was able to negotiate before he turned on me," he lied, trying to soothe their agitation. "He has agreed not to trigger Armageddon — to continue with the proxy war on earth."

"But the Plan!" Uriel said, getting to their feet in anger.

"Heaven cannot win against the Dragon at full strength, especially with the combined might of the antichrist," he said, clenching his fists. Sandalphon glanced between the two of them, and Michael remained stoic. "Could you _imagine_ the devastation that would be wrought, if the Devil's child was half-angel instead of half-human?"

Uriel winced, and sank back into their chair. He had a point. They'd been backed into a corner, once so sure they would win, now quaking under the threat of two reality-bending abominations. "What could have driven Aziraphale to this kind of betrayal?"

"He's gone native," Michael said distastefully. He turned a hard look on Gabriel. Doubts lingered in the back of his mind; this was all very sudden, and utterly without proof. He kept his face impassive as he spoke. They didn't believe a word he was saying — apart from the bit where _his_ precious earth specialist had fraternised with the enemy. "He must have fallen in with Hell right under your nose."

"It was not my fault," he said, tension coiling in his shoulders. "Aziraphale made me believe that there was only one demon on earth, and they'd never even met. I couldn't have known."

"How convenient," he replied, turning away to share a bitter glance with Uriel.


	7. Unexpected Guests

In the short time Aziraphale spent in Hell, while Crowley made arrangements, he began to notice a pattern. Demons bowed to him in hallways. The imps dared not look directly at him. Even the dukes — though Hastur and Ligur tactfully avoided him altogether — didn't speak to him unless spoken to. At first, he thought all that deference was for Crowley's sake. He was usually with him, after all, but the more he took notice of it, the less sure he was. 

He was right to wonder. Whispers had spread from ear to ear about Lucifer's chosen one, the angel, and some were in such disbelief that they came lurking into the castle to catch a glimpse for themselves. Their master, loving his natural enemy? It seemed impossible, yet here they were. Not only that, the principality was far from submissive; he held a considerable influence over Lucifer, and could speak freely to him whenever he pleased. No one had ever seen anything like it. He acted as if they were equals — and so did Crowley. For eons, he had been the one and only Lord and Master of Hell, but now...? There was only one logical conclusion to draw. 

Aziraphale must be a Lord of Hell, too. 

They slipped back onto Earth with barely a whisper. After a few days of lying cold and silent, the bookshop was full of warm light again, and Aziraphale puttered about like he always had. Crowley lounged in the back room, out of sight from any humans that might disturb his afternoon naps. Aziraphale was welcome to, though. He often came back to drape a light blanket over him, or press a kiss to his temple while he dozed. Crowley sometimes let his eyes flick open, and stole another from his lips, and other times he simply lay there with a dopey smile. He could get used to this.

Benevolence and Rover were welcome additions to the shop, too. Aziraphale took great delight in telling them to guard his first editions, and listening to the growls and cries of alarm somewhere amongst the shelves while he reclined behind the counter, knowing it was all in-hand... or in-paw, rather. The hounds never harmed anyone, of course. Benevolence's teeth were for kibble only (and the odd unlucky pigeon, not that Crowley ever snitched on him). The local council did try to confiscate the dogs after a few complaints, but Aziraphale turned them away as easily as he did the mobsters who came along trying to bully him out of his real estate. The dogs were family. They weren't going anywhere.

Crowley idly tossed a paperweight into the air, reclining on the sofa. "How come I'm only the _Prince_ of Darkness?" he wondered aloud. His head lolled to the side, watching Aziraphale catalogue his new books at his desk. "I mean, is there some King of Darkness that I don't know about? What's that all about?"

Aziraphale thought about it for a moment. "Perhaps Prince sounds more intimidating than king...?" he suggested. 

He scoffed. "Since when?"

"Well, princes do tend to flout the rules and be more — ah, how should I say? — more self-serving than kings," he said, picking up another tome. "In fiction, at least. We know firsthand that's not always the case."

"Now that's just mean. I'm not self-serving. Well, I am, but I'm not a prick about it," he said, scrunching up his nose. "Most of the time, at least."

"Why don't you just promote yourself to king, if you're so bothered by it?" he said, focused mainly on making an inventory of his books. 

"Bit sad, innit?" he said morosely. "Having to promote _myself_. Feels a bit pathetic."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes fondly, gathering the stack of books into his arms and heading for the front of the shop. On his way, he paused by the sofa, leaning over the demon's head. "Well, in that case: by the power vested in me as a Guardian of Humanity, I, the Principality Aziraphale, hereby declare you, Anthony J Crowley Esquire, to be the one and rightful King of Darkness," he said, leaning down to seal the proclamation with a kiss on the forehead. "There. Happy?"

Crowley fought back a lovestruck smile, though it was a futile endeavour. "Yeah. Thanks, angel," he said, hoping in vain that he wasn't visibly blushing.

"Jolly good. Now, as your first act as king, would you be a dear and pick up some tea for me? I'm running low on jasmine," he said, with a smile. 

"Oh, and I suppose you're the Emperor of Darkness, are you, ordering me about like that?" he joked, hauling himself to his feet. Aziraphale tutted, but didn't argue, placated when Crowley pecked him on the cheek as he passed. "I'll be right back."

They was a lot of bickering in Heaven, not that they'd ever admit to such a petty pastime. It seemed odd, they thought, that Satan had risen again so quietly. Surely there would be more fire ripping the fault-lines of the earth, or new waves of evil ravaging humanity... 

"Can we be sure that Gabriel hasn't simply lost his nerve?" Michael murmured, surveying the globe far below, standing beside Uriel. He was itching to face Lucifer again; they had unfinished business. He'd been too strong for Michael to strike a killing blow in the first heavenly war, and he'd dealt wounds that made Michael limp and shudder even now, but in his deteriorated state? Michael would finally be victorious. 

"Why would he?" Uriel replied evenly.

"He saw the legions of Hell. He saw the fire and the sulphur," he said, flexing his hands. "Perhaps he struck a deal. Peace and compromise, in return for an everlasting stalemate."

"Maybe he fears for you," they said, shooting him a look from the corner of their eye. "You are the one who must face the Dragon, when the time comes."

"I don't believe that Lucifer truly loves anyone. Not since his fall. Aziraphale will only have been a distraction. He can never rise again," he said, his voice tight with determination. "I cast him out the first time, Uriel. This time, I will strike him down once and for all."

"That was before the Almighty took Her vow of silence," they said. "This time, you will face him alone... and if what Gabriel says is true, it will be your end."

Michael set his jaw. "Then so be it."

Aziraphale checked the clock. Crowley was dragging his heels a bit. He tutted, lamenting his lack of jasmine tea, wondering where that fiend could have got to. In the back of his mind, an old fear lingered, one that whispered hideous things about what the masters of Hell could do the lowly serpent if he was ever found fraternising with an angel. He could laugh at that, now. Crowley was untouchable, above all punishment, excepting only what God herself saw fit to bestow. He shrugged on his new (read: less than 50 years old) cardigan and headed for the door. He'd try and intercept that sneaky devil on his way back from the tea shop, and see what he'd been up to. Sticking coins to the pavement, probably! 

He stepped out onto the street, locking the shop behind him. Soho bustled around him as the afternoon wound down, and people's minds began to turn toward the evening. He breathed in deeply, tucking his keys into his pocket as he stepped off the pavement. The road was quiet when he stepped onto it — until it wasn't. Tyres screamed on tarmac. People shrieked in alarm. Aziraphale didn't have time. His breaking bones made more noise than his voice box as an oncoming car rammed him to the ground. 

His corporation was empty before it hit the road. 

Aziraphale landed heavily on his feet, stumbling a little on the freshly mopped white floors. His head spun. He flapped his arms, getting his balance, before finally looking down at himself. His soft, comfortable cardigan had been replaced with a stark white uniform, one he'd never expected to be wearing again. His heart jolted. He looked up, wide-eyed, at the angels milling around in the lobby of Heaven; all eyes were on him. His translucent form was a dead giveaway that he'd been unexpectedly discorporated. His eyes flicked back and forth in the tense silence. 

"Well well well," drawled a voice stalking through the throng. Purple eyes needled Aziraphale like daggers. "If it isn't the promiscuous principality himself."

He tried to smile. "Gabriel! My old friend, lovely to see you, um..." he said, all attempts at shallow familiarity falling flat. He wrung his hands together. "... I don't suppose you'd lend me another corporation for just two ticks, would you?"

The archangel crossed his arms, with lesser angels gathering around him, fixing Aziraphale with suspicious glares. "Oh, you're not going anywhere, sunshine," he said with perverse satisfaction. "Me and you need to have a little talk."

Crowley checked his watch. He strolled back down the street, only peripherally aware of the blaring sirens somewhere up ahead. It was just London's noise. He was more focused on surprising Aziraphale with some fresh bread to have with dinner, after his little detour via the bakery before coming home. It ate into his journey time, sure, but for the smile on his angel's face? It was well worth it.

The road was strangely quiet as he crossed. He glanced up from his phone, spotting an ambulance blocking up the road near the bookshop. He hesitated. People lingered around the scene, as humans always did when something truly awful had happened. His feet took him closer before he had a chance to clear the fog of dread from his mind, or the cold lump settling heavy in his stomach. He shouldered through the crowd, and kept walking until he felt a hand close around his shoulder.

"Sorry, sir, this is the scene of a fatal traffic collision. I'm going to have to ask you to step back," said the police officer. "This section of road is closed for the time being. You need to go around."

Crowley swallowed thickly. "Is it — ? Who's hurt?" he asked hoarsely, staring over her shoulder at the bustle of high-vis jackets blocking the scene of the accident. The officer's expression softened as she realised he wasn't just trying to push through on his way home from work. "Please. My boyfriend lives here, he owns this shop."

The officer glanced at the bookshop, and the pity written across her features would be confirmation enough, if not for how fiercely Crowley wanted to deny it. "Come with me, sir. Let's find you somewhere to sit down," she said, gently taking his elbow and beckoning over her colleague to take her place in guarding the perimeter. Crowley let her take him about three steps away, too shell-shocked to remember he wasn't really a grief-stricken human, before snapping back to himself. 

He planted his feet firmly on the ground, refusing to go any further, and time itself followed suit. The world fell into chilling silence. He pulled his elbow out of the policewoman's grip, weaving between the flesh-and-blood statues crowding the road. Stopping time was as easy as reaching out and holding back the ticking hand of a clock, now, all thanks to the angel which had once lived inside the corporation beneath the white sheet laid out on the road. Crowley's shadow fell over the still form. He crouched down, one shaking hand reaching out to pull back the sheet. Aziraphale's features were slack and grazed by the tarmac. His eyes were glassy; vacant. Crowley set his jaw tight, even as a tear rolled down his cheek. His breaths came shallow and ragged. This was wrong, all wrong... He was supposed to be sat there in his armchair, pouting at an empty teacup, not lying dead on the road!

Only he wasn't dead, was he? Crowley shook his head to clear it, and began to hover his hands over the broken corporation, healing the broken bones and sealing up the wounds. Aziraphale would need it back, soon. He scooped up the empty vessel, and pushed back through the crowd, toward the bookshop. It would be safe in there, behind lock and key, until Crowley brought its occupant back. Aziraphale was coming home; there was no two ways about it.

The bookshop door clicked shut behind him, and time smoothly resumed. The paramedics were confused to find themselves crouched over a sheet in the road. Was someone hurt? Why had they been called? They got to their feet, scratching their heads and trying to remember. Perhaps they'd just been treating someone for shock, or maybe they'd already been taken away in an ambulance. Yeah, that was probably it. Their job was done here. A nearby police officer was in a similar dilemma; for a moment, she was certain that she'd been talking to someone, though she couldn't begin to imagine who. She hummed. The memory, if that's what it was, had faded already, like waking from a dream. It was probably just her imagination running away with her again. 

Aziraphale was marched through Heaven, through the high-roofed halls and lofty penthouse offices, chattering all the while. By coincidence, the Principality of the Western Gate of Eden had been the one to take him by the arm to escort him through Heaven, following Gabriel. "Ah! A fellow principality, wonderful," Aziraphale said skittishly. "How have you been, dear fellow? Old pal? I haven't seen you since — oh, before gate duty!"

"That's probably a good thing, if the rumours are true," he replied distastefully.

"Oh come now, there's no need for all that," he said, hoping for at least a flicker of camaraderie. "What's a few snide words to an old friend, hm? Tosh! That's what."

"Do you even remember my name?" he said, arching a brow. Aziraphale fell shamefully silent. 

He was brought before the other archangels in a stilted silence. Gabriel grinned broadly, gesturing at him. "One traitor, delivered on a silver platter," he said, searching Michael's face for any hint of interest. The senior archangel gave nothing away. "You can hear him for yourself. Aziraphale, tell them."

"Tell them... what?" he said, hoping to stall for time. Any moment now, Crowley would come sauntering in, cool as you like, and whisk him away to safety. He had to. 

"Don't play dumb," said Gabriel through gritted teeth. "You raised the devil from the ashes of his defeat. Confess."

"W — Well, when you put it that way, it makes it sound awful," he said, glancing down at his feet. "I just gave him a little leg up, that's all."

"Leg _over_ , you mean," Uriel sniped, with a side-glance at Michael. "If Gabriel speaks the truth."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. "Well. Yes, that too."

There was an awkward silence. Michael's expression tightened. He squared his shoulders, and narrowed his eyes. "You're lying," he said. Aziraphale gasped, affronted. "Or you've been played for a fool. The Devil cannot love."

"Hmph!" was Aziraphale's response. He turned his nose up at the archangel haughtily. "Just you wait. He'll come looking for me, and it would be best for everyone if you just avoided the whole confrontation altogether, and popped me back down on earth where I belong."

Gabriel rolled his eyes, trying to catch Sandalphon's eye, to no avail. "Don't kid yourself, Aziraphale. He's already got what he needs from you," he said, though that wasn't quite true. Crowley had everything but an antichrist, and Aziraphale would be the prime candidate to give him one. Conveniently, that would be impossible if the angel was imprisoned up above. You know, just in case. "Just because he loves you doesn't mean he likes it. Getting rid of you will be a load off his mind."

Aziraphale baulked. "What kind of arse-backwards logic is _that?"_ he snapped. He caught himself a moment later, his cheeks running hot as he realised what coarse language he'd used. 

Michael rolled his eyes and turned away, making for the door. "I've seen enough. Lock him up and throw away the key," he said. "He's no longer fit for service."

Aziraphale's eyes widened as the other Principality grasped his arm, pulling him in the opposite direction. He struggled against them, but their strength was a match for his own. "No! You don't understand! You must let me go back to him!" he said, a flash of panic running through him. He hadn't seriously thought the archangels would disbelieve Gabriel. They had no idea what was about to hit them; Crowley had killed for Aziraphale before, and he would do it again. 1941 was only one example. "Unhand me! Gabriel! You've seen him, you know what will happen!"

The archangel glanced over his shoulder. A hint of concern lingered behind those purple eyes, betraying his fear. "He won't come back for you, Aziraphale," he said, desperate to believe it, as he turned away. 

"Gabriel! You fool!" he cried as another principality ran over to contain his mad thrashing. One struck him hard in the stomach, winding him. He doubled over in pain, his eyes watering. He glared at the backs of the retreating archangels, calling after them: "You had better pray he's in a merciful mood!" 

Crowley stepped out onto the rooftop of a nearby building. The wind blew cold as he turned his bloodshot eyes toward the grey sky. Rain was coming. That seemed apt, somehow. Invisible to the humans below, Crowley unfolded his dark, glossy wings and, with three mighty flaps, took to the sky. 

The air went from cold to freezing the higher he climbed, the biting frost making his fingers numb. Icy mist engulfed him, condensation running down the quill of each feather, chilling him to the bone — but he was more than flesh and bone. He was fire, and darkness, and light, and no matter how cold his body became, the storm could not keep him earthbound. A deep rumble bubbled up his throat. Scales began to push through his skin as his corporation swelled and cracked, finally unravelling himself into his true and final corporeal form. A vast black cloud enveloped him. Seconds passed. Thunder boomed and lightning struck, highlighting the ocean of grey and inky black in stark white light. All fell quiet. Nature held its breath. 

A colossal shadow erupted from the clouds. A creature that creation hadn't seen for millennia spread his wings, darker than the void of space and almost as impossibly vast, sweeping away the clouds as he flew ever higher, ever faster. Lightning-flashes sharpened the Dragon's claws. Crowley rumbled, a noise mistaken for thunder far below; all at once, the sky above gave way to the great nebulous beyond, the veil between worlds thrust aside with barely a whisper. Crowley narrowed his eyes, reducing them to chips of gold and hellfire, as he spotted his target. A vast white pyramid hung in the void, rotating gently in an endless, graceful orbit of the earth. Inside, there lay all Crowley had lost forever — or nearly all, that is. There was one piece of heaven in there he fully intended to take back. His lip curled, revealing row upon row of white razorblade teeth. 

It was high time he paid them a visit, anyway.


	8. Rewriting Fate

Heaven was a quiet space; contemplative, and peaceful. Out-of-place sounds were hushed faster than any librarian could manage — or indeed, any book-hoarding angels, though only one such specimen existed. That is why the first sound was so disturbing: a long, continuous scuffling, making every passing angel stop in their tracks. They looked at one another. They glanced up, and around, wondering who to shush when they couldn't quite pinpoint the source of the noise. Then, there was another. A scratching sound joined in. A passing angel jumped, feeling that drawn-out noise vibrate on the soles of their feet, with a cry of alarm. Others took notice. Their eyes widened. It was underneath Heaven itself! Could it be rats? Giant, celestial rats...? Whatever it was, it began to snuffle its way back and forth beneath the floor tiles, spooking away every angel who happened to be standing above.

A calamitous _boom_ wracked the hall. The ground shook, sending several bystanders to their knees, and several more stumbling against the wall. Another impact pounded the floor a moment later, and another, until a flurry of blows made the whole hall shudder and explode into a confusion of shouting and angels fleeing in terror. 

Something was trying to break in. 

A sharp crack split the air, echoing through Heaven. Angels screamed. The scent of evil flooded the hall, gushing from the crack in the floor as the tiles splintered and lifted, a giant black snout pushing its way up through the debris like the serpent emerging into Eden, some six millennia ago. A forked tongue flickered out. Crowley tasted the fear, relished it, as he ripped away more of the floor, casting the tiles down into the yawning void below. A bellowing roar ripped from his throat, triumphant, as he surged upward, using his size and strength to force his way through and into the white and empty hall. 

Yellow eyes swept back and forth like searchlights as angels scattered and screamed in terror, caught unarmed and unprepared. Crowley jeered and snapped his jaws, stopping just short of catching them between his teeth. There were so _tiny._ It was hard work not to stand on them as he lurched forward, barrelling straight through the wall ahead. The stone crumbled beneath the force, scattering brick and glass like ocean-spray across the next room. He could sense Aziraphale, somewhere nearby, just waiting for him. He was alive. He crowed triumphantly, thoughtlessly lashing his tail and striking a dozen angels hard into the adjacent wall. Oops. Oh well; it looked like they were about to attack him anyway. 

"Lucifer!" boomed a voice from ahead, cutting his rampage short. Crowley hissed, all at once blinded by a flash of light, which quickly faded as the outline of a form took shape, a form with a size to equal the Dragon, with many arms and myriad faces. It was one that Crowley knew well. The last he'd seen it, it had been a silhouette shrinking into the distance as he plummeted into the sulphur-pits. A lightning bolt crackled hungrily in their hand. 

He narrowed his eyes with a snarl. "Michael."

Aziraphale leapt to his feet when the tremors began, running to the bars of his cell, pressing his face against them in a futile attempt to see further down the barren white hallway. "Crowley!" he screamed, rattling the bars. The Western Principality stood motionless by the cell, though his carefully schooled expression wavered as a terrible reptilian screech reverberated through Heaven. "Please! Please, let me out!"

"Silence," said the principality.

"Don't you see? There's no need for bloodshed!" he cried, almost driven to tears. "I can stop this. You must let me free."

He swallowed hard, and shook his head. "I can't disobey."

"I once thought the same," he said, though the other angel still refused to meet his gaze. Another scream ripped the air, followed by the booming noise of crumbling mortar. The Western Principality flinched. "But we have a choice. We always have a choice."

"And I choose to obey!" he bellowed, finally whirling around on him even as the commotion beyond the prison hall pitched higher. He breathed heavily, staring into those disarming blue eyes, so full of earthly wisdom that it made him feel like... like he was a young fledgling again...

"But my dear boy," Aziraphale said softly. "Haven't you ever wondered why?"

Crowley pawed the ground, his claws screeching along the tile, scoring deep grooves through them. He lashed his tail, smashing through a marble pillar like glass, as he and Michael circled one another. The archangel was a sight to behold, blue-white wings spread wide in a threat display, framing the faces that studded the centre of his humanoid form from head to navel like jeering theatre masks, and all six of his arms poised to strike. Crowley sneered.

"Look at me, Michael," he hissed, keeping his head low to the ground as he stalked around him. "You know the odds. D'you really want to pick this fight?"

Michael flexed his fingers, lightning crackling in his palms. "It was always our fate."

Crowley curled his lip. "Never were very _bright,_ were you?" he said, needling that sore nerve, the one that always reminded Michael that he had not been the most luminous of the created angels. "You know what I'm here for. Just let me take it and leave."

"Enough taunting," he said, planting his feet and bracing for a fight. "I've waited long enough for this."

Crowley shrugged. "Your call."

He surged forward, launching himself from his powerful haunches, hitting Michael square in the chest. Lightning seared across his scales as they were both launched into the wall, which crumbled under the force and cast them loose into the star-studded void beyond Heaven. Crowley spread his wings, pulling himself to a halt, releasing his opponent to the black abyss. Michael shrieked, suddenly in free-fall. For a bone-chilling moment, everything moved slowly. He fell with his back facing the earth, as Crowley had, staring up at the dark silhouette of a dragon hovering above, watching his fall with the bright light of Heaven at his back... as if Michael had been the one to turn his back on grace, not him. The image stirred a fire in him. He roared, wheeling in the air, soaring skyward again with a mighty flap of his wings. 

Crowley folded his wings, narrowly dodging his first swipe. He cursed. Spinning mid-air, he snapped at Michael's arm, catching it between his teeth and twisting. The archangel screeched, grabbing his horns. He yanked harshly, wrenching Crowley's jaws free. The Dragon snarled, fighting the iron grip on his horns, snapping his jaws at Michael's throat as his hind legs slashed at his abdomen, ripping the eyes from his lower faces. Tears streamed from Michael’s remaining eyes. He wrestled with the beast's terrible strength, one slip away from feeling those teeth around his soft throat. His third hand crackled with lightning as he curled it into a fist, striking hard at Crowley's ribs. 

The impact sent him reeling. Michael released his head, panting, putting some distance between them. His silver blood ran in rivers from his abdomen, weeping onto the earth, as pain burnt him from the inside out. One arm hung uselessly by his side, broken. Two trembled with exertion. He held out his three remaining arms, charging a lightning strike. Crowley barely had time to shield himself, grabbing a nearby chunk of debris to absorb the blast of three bolts as one. The stone shattered, pelting him with granite chips as the impact sent him spiralling backwards, pain blossoming somewhere under his scales as his bones cracked. He plunged downwards, vaguely aware of the crackle of more lightning behind him; he had to get his bearings, fast. He spread his wings, abruptly halting his descent, and Michael crashed into his back. 

He rolled, and the archangel carried the momentum, plummeting for a split second. He screeched in shock. Crowley reached out, one clawed foot grasping his ankle, and flew upward toward the damaged white pyramid. Michael writhed in his grasp, the bone-deep pain in his abdomen rendering him unable to pull himself up and strike back at his captor. Crowley swung him carelessly around, feeling a sharp _pop_ as Michael's leg dislocated. He tossed him into the air, striking at him as he passed. He snapped his jaws, a lucky bite severing one of his hands completely, the silver blood decorating his scales. In his agony, Michael failed to flap his wings before Crowley's talons closed around one of them, spinning him around and around in a dizzying, agonising spiral until he finally released him, throwing him against the cold white exterior of Heaven. 

Michael hit the white pyramid-slope with a sickening crack. He shrieked, his back hissing along the brick as he began to slide down the incline at a rapidly building pace. He scrabbled to find purchase, the stone grazing his hands and painting silver streaks behind him, refusing to slow him. The sheer drop surged closer. One wing hung limp and useless from his back, dislocated; he couldn’t fly. He screamed. Crowley had vanished; he’d left, like Michael wasn’t worth the time it took to watch him die. As the pyramid finally cast him into the abyss, a tear slipped from Michael's eye. The abyss swirled around him as he plummeted earthward. He had at least hoped he would die fighting — not falling. Anything but falling. 

A vice grip clamped around his shoulders. All the air left his body as he jolted to a halt, dragged upward again by the powerful beating of great, dark wings. He looked up, jaw slack. Crowley spread his wings, gliding toward the hole in Heaven's wall, tossing Michael back through it. The archangel groaned, rolling on the hard stone before skidding over the floor to a painful halt, leaving a trail of silver blood. Crowley landed a moment later, perched on the precipice of Heaven like a gigantic bird of prey. Michael pushed himself up on shaking arms (or what was left of them), turning his eyes (or what was left of them) onto his enemy. 

"Why?" he said hoarsely. His throat burned with shame and rage. Angels gathered by the doorways, cowering, terrified of the impassive yellow eyes that watched Michael with something akin to pity. "Are you so desperate for all to see your victory? Is your heart so black that you won't even spare us _that?"_

Crowley tilted his head. He cast his gaze over the ruins he'd left in his wake; they would recover, he had no doubt. Michael would, too, though admittedly his missing hand and eyes would not. "It's over, Michael," he said, his soft voice reverberating through the hall. "It's been over for six thousand years."

"Wh... What?" he said, collapsing back onto the floor, his strength failing him. A murmur went up around the spectating angels, a few brave souls daring to edge out and get a better view of the Dragon. "No... This is... our final battle. You... You cannot... spare me!"

He chuckled, a deep baritone that seemed almost friendly. "When are you gonna learn, Michael? I never do as I'm told," he said. He breathed in deeply. Whatever rage he'd felt before, it had escaped him. He was no longer the same angel that had fallen from grace all those years ago; in many ways, he had left Lucifer behind long ago. He was Crowley now, to his core. He raised his head high, looking down at the angel he'd once thought was his enemy. "I have nothing left to prove to you."

"But... Armageddon!" he said, his breathing labouring. The sound of approaching footfalls grew louder through the halls. Medics, probably.

Crowley shook his head. "There won't be one," he said, so focused on his fallen opponent that he didn't notice Aziraphale skidding to a halt nearby, shouldering through a cluster of indignant angels and clambering over the rubble. He didn't seem the least bit surprised to find the heady scent of blood on the air, or an archangel maimed on the floor. "Earth belongs to the creatures that call it home. It's more than a battlefield to be won."

Aziraphale paused as he skirted around the edge of a pool of silver blood, looking up at the Great Dragon with a soppy expression. "Oh, Crowley, that's just lovely," he said, unable to help himself from interrupting. Crowley jumped, his gaze snapping onto the tiny principality in surprise. Aziraphale ducked his head, suddenly embarrassed as all eyes turned to him. “Ah. Sorry, dear... Did I interrupt your victory monologue?”

"N—Nah, s’fine. I was pretty much done," he said, still surprised to see him out in the open. He stooped down, bringing his head to his level. "I... I thought you'd be in prison."

"Oh, I was," he said, unfolding his wings and giving them a quick flap to alight on top of Crowley's head, just between his horns. It made the lizard go cross-eyed trying to get a look at him. "My jailer and I had a little chat."

"And...?"

"And I gagged and hog-tied him in the corner when I overheard the battle," he said, earning an amused chuckle from him as he lifted his head back to its full height. "What? He was being very unreasonable! I did _try_ to negotiate with him."

"Sure," he said, returning his gaze to the angels below, who were now swarming Michael to patch his wounds, and taking up defensive postures around him. The other archangels were nowhere to be seen. Cowering somewhere else, probably, in the hope that they wouldn't have to pick up the slack if Michael lost. Crowley sneered, spreading his wings as he prepared to take flight. "Well, I've got what I'm here for."

"It's been lovely knowing you all!" Aziraphale shouted from on top of Crowley's head. 

"Ciao," said the Dragon as he turned away from the glaring white halls and dove earthwards, back to the place he called home. 

Crowley landed beside the shop, in his human form once again. Not a single human batted an eyelid at the wings he folded behind his back, or how he held out his arm seemingly for thin air to take as he walked it into the nearby AZ Fell & Co antique bookshop. If thin air was also blushing and pressing himself as close as he could without physical form, well, that went unnoticed too. 

Aziraphale's corporation was laid out neatly on the sofa. Getting back into it was as easy as lying down. Blinking rapidly, the room swam into focus around him after a moment of fuzziness, with a smiling demon leaning over him. "Hello there, dear," he said, leaning up to kiss him. 

Crowley hummed as they pulled apart again. "Good to have you back, angel," he said, settling beside him as he sat up and corrected his posture. A booming bark echoed through the shop, followed by two sets of scrabbling paws. The angel beamed.

"Ben!" he cried as the hellhound launched itself into his lap. He grunted with the weight, but kept a firm grip as the dog snuffled his face and whined in relief. Rover followed close behind, wheeling around in circles by Crowley's feet, barking at him. 

"I had to shut them in the other room while you were gone," Crowley explained, with a knowing look down at Rover. "If they’re here, I suspect they chewed a hole in the door while we were out."

"Oh, dear. Naughty boy," the angel said, lightly tapping Ben on the nose with one finger. The hound only sneezed and wagged his tail even harder. Crowley rolled his eyes. 

"You're soft with him," he said. 

"I'm soft with you, too, and you don't complain," he retorted, gently sliding Benevolence out of his lap and onto the floor. He patted him on the head. "Which rather brings me to my next point... Are you hurt?"

"Hm?"

"Don't give me that. You fought in close combat with an archangel, surely you're wounded," he said, reaching out to unbutton his shirt and check for the telltale bruising. Crowley batted him away. 

"I'm fine. Just sore. Nothing I can't heal on my own," he said. His cracked bones had already begun knitting themselves back together, almost subconsciously, on the flight back down. Aziraphale looked unconvinced. He grinned, trying to crack a joke."If you want an excuse to take my clothes off, angel, you only have to ask."

He gave him a stern look. "Now, really, dear."

He huffed. "I'm okay!" he said, throwing his arms wide. "I'm at the top of my game again, Aziraphale. Michael didn't stand a chance."

Aziraphale frowned and, for a moment, Crowley feared he regretted what he'd done. "Good lord," he said quietly, seeming for all the world like he was having some profound realisation. "You really are quite the beefcake, now, aren't you?"

Crowley's whole face contorted in a way that would make a circus acrobat jealous. "I'm a _wot?"_ he said, descending into a series of indignant — almost horrified — splutters. "I'm — I'm — ! Beef — ? Uck, I can't even say it."

"Oh, do stop being so dramatic," he said, fondly exasperated, and the feeling was mutual. "You're terribly strong, that's all, and... well, I suppose I'm just now realising how much has changed."

"Hey. I'm still me," he said, laying a hand on his knee. Azirpahale nodded, and Crowley took a deep breath, steeling himself to add on the last part through gritted teeth: "... beefcake or not."

Aziraphale's lip curled into a smile. "See? You can say it."

Crowley groaned, flopping back against the sofa. "You're a nightmare, you are."

"What high praise from the Devil himself," he said, chuckling, and getting to his feet. Ben trotted along, practically fused to his hip. "Now, where is that jasmine tea I sent you out to get...? Don't think I've forgotten!"

Crowley laughed, dragging himself to his feet and following closely behind. The kettle clicked on, muttering as the water boiled, and Aziraphale made short work of the box containing his precious tea. Crowley leaned on the counter as he worked, puttering back and forth in quiet domestic bliss. Ben sat behind him, attentively watching his every move. Rover's snores could be heard from the next room; he'd probably crawled into the warm spot on the sofa they'd left behind and dozed off before anyone could argue. Aziraphale's smiled serenely as he poured his tea, sliding a cup across to his lover, who took it gratefully. The angel breathed deeply from the steam, and sighed contentedly. Love was in the air, and it wrapped around him like a warm, familiar blanket.

Crowley arched a brow at him in amusement. "Good tea?"

Aziraphale came over to him, giving him a light peck on the lips. "Absolutely tip-top, my dear."

Not so very far from London, in the grand scheme of things, there was a somewhat inconsequential Oxfordshire village called Tadfield. In another life, perhaps it might have had a greater destiny. At the moment, it was the only human settlement caught in the middle of an incredible natural phenomenon. It had the parish vicar frantically flicking through his Bible, trying to discern some meaning from it. The village children were hastily called inside. RP Tyler, of the local neighbourhood watch, even called the emergency services, who dutifully informed him that rain was not a police matter.

"It's not regular bloody rain, you imbeciles!" he raged, hopping from foot to foot as he peeked out from his net curtains. "It's _silver rain!"_

For once in his small, petty life, he was right to be uptight. It didn't stop him for getting fined for wasting police time, but he was right. A fine silver rain fell over Tadfield that day, despite there not being a single cloud in the dark sky (silver-lined or otherwise). Angel's blood had never been spilt upon the earth before, so one might understand why it took a while before anyone at the Met Office realised that the people of Tadfield had not, in fact, colluded to make a series of truly bizarre and incredibly specific prank calls. Sadly, nobody thought to call the nearby airbase, who were just as panicked about the odd metallic rain, and one other thing...

The gate-guard had been simply minding his own business when he spotted something in the sky. He squinted. That was odd. What was it — a bird, a plane? It certainly wasn't Superman. It quickly grew from a speck to a blob to a downright _oh fuck, it's coming right for me!_ The guard dropped his book, burst out of his kiosk, and only made it about a hundred metres before the shockwave from the impact flung him a further 300 metres and into a tree. It was, fortunately, a very un-solid and rotten tree, and broke his fall with only a few snapped ribs. The guard groaned, face-down in the leaf mould, muttering curses about this pokey bloody Atlantic island and its bizarre goings-on. He should’ve taken the transfer to Area 51 instead. The alarm on the airbase went off a moment later. He curled his lip, barking a few choice words before promptly passing out. It was probably for the best. 

Soldiers swarmed the airfield, skidding to a halt in horror and confusion as they saw what had destroyed the gate and flattened the kiosk, stamping a deep crater into the concrete. There was no protocol for this. What was one to do, when a giant blueish-white hand crashed to earth, weeping the same silver blood that pooled underfoot and soaked into the earth of Hogback Wood? 

The answer did not occur to them until far too late. They made many phone calls and had many shouting matches with their superiors as they tried to convince them that no, I'm not insane, and yes, silver rain and giant body-parts! A good portion of the junior staff had already taken pictures and told their families, since they'd not been presented with any non-disclosure papers, and the hand was not yet classified under any particular clearance level. Word began to spread. Nosey Tadfield residents drove tentatively up to the airfield to catch a glimpse of the "alien hand" which had caused such a fuss when the rumours reached the village. They were promptly chased off, but countryside folk were indomitable; when one car left, another two trundled up to take its place. The cover-up had failed before it began. 

It was when the news crews turned up that it really went belly-up, though. 

The day the story broke, coincidentally, coincided perfectly with the day Crowley talked Aziraphale into installing a TV set in his shop. He argued that if Crowley could fight an archangel for him, Aziraphale could return the favour with this one small compromise. Aziraphale reluctantly agreed. He had, obviously, chosen a painfully old-fashioned model, but Crowley could cope. A few unconscious miracles here and there brought the black-and-white screen up to a modern standard, regardless of the internals of the machine. The TV droned in the background as Crowley dozed off in front of it, a coffee in his lap. Aziraphale passed by a few times, two hellhounds always trailing behind him, constantly rearranging his hoard of books. It was on his third pass that the news headline caught his ear.

"The top headline today: a so-called _alien hand_ fell from the sky onto RAF Tadfield in Oxfordshire yesterday. This bizarre occurrence was accompanied by what local witnesses described as a silver rain, believed by investigating scientists to be the blood from the hand," said the news anchor, whose own shellshocked expression told the viewers that she was struggling to believe what was scrolling by on the autocue, too. Aziraphale's face fell as he saw the shaky helicopter footage of a very familiar hand. "The entirety of the surrounding area has been quarantined for public safety, and the government is calling for any further incidents to be reported immediately. A public health warning has been issued to avoid all contact with the so-called silver rain, and to report any further contamination immediately by calling the number on-screen." 

Aziraphale grasped Crowley's shoulder, shaking him awake. The demon groaned and complained. "Whaaaat?"

"Crowley, did you just let Michael's hand _fall to earth_ when you bit it off?" he said angrily, gesturing at the news coverage. Crowley blinked.

"Um..."

"Couldn't you have eaten it or something?" he said as the news anchor continued to talk about the travel restrictions in Oxfordshire, and spoke to a very spooked astrobiologist who hadn’t expected to wake up that morning and end up discussing the possibility of space-giants on the nine o'clock news. 

"Eaten — ? Angel, that's cannibalism!" he said, still shaking off the haze of sleep. "I'd be liable to throw up, and then they'd be in bother! Dragon-sick _and_ a giant hand!"

"Blast," he said, setting down his stack of books. He had a point. He glanced nervously at the TV, biting his lip. "Erm... should we... do something about that, do you think?"

He shrugged, slumping back against the sofa. "Dunno. It'd take a mountain of paperwork to get all those memories wiped, and move the hand," he said. Both him and the angel wrinkled their noses at the P word. "Not to mention the overtime bill."

"So, we just let them sort themselves out, then?" Aziraphale said hopefully. If doing nothing was on the cards, then it was generally his preferred option. He was quite happy to settle down with his darling dragon and act like nothing happened, if at all possible. Crowley pulled a thoughtful face, of a similar mind, and nodded.

"Yeeeah, it'll probably be fine," he said, and switched channels.


End file.
